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DODGE MACKNIGHT 

Water Color Painter 



BY 

Desmond FitzGerald 

Brookline, Mass. 



PRIVATELY PRINTED 



,8^ 






«AK 28 Wf 



The River dale Press, 
Brookline, Mass. 



FOREWORD 

Having confidence in the ultimate success of Mr. 
Macknight's work, and the wide interest which it will 
awaken, the writer has decided to print privately the 
following notes of incidents in the artist's career, 
which have been collected from time to time, in order 
that they may not be entirely lost. They may per- 
haps prove useful in some more comprehensive work 
of the future. 

The Author 

October 12, iqi6 



PREFACE 

Art is the best expression of the civilization of the 
period in which it is produced. It is certainly influ- 
enced to a great degree by the life of the times, which 
accounts for the special beauty and perfection it 
assumes in different epochs of the world's history. 
The high standard of Greek sculpture, the charm of 
the primitives, the glories of the true Gothic, the 
depth of the Sung glazes, the plein-air landscapes of 
our own day, all are full of the individual civilizations 
of the peoples who produced them ; all imitations can 
but feebly represent their real worth, because the 
influences which surrounded and nurtured them are 
lacking. 

There has always been a crisis in art and we may 
add, with the utmost assurance, there always will be. 
In the strict sense of the term, there is no such thing 
as permanency, and in regard to .the affairs of man, 
this is doubly true. Man himself is always changing, 
but there can be no change without revolutions, and 
the crises, which we believe never before occurred to 
the same degree as during the times in which we move, 
have always been a feature in the struggles in art. It 
was a crisis in art when the cave man first began to 
draw upon the rocks, and it was a crisis in art when 
Napoleon began to dictate the channels of its activi- 
ties and the rewards for its efforts. 

In a certain sense, however, crises in art were never 
so marked as in these feverish times in which we live. 
As the race advances, its steps undoubtedly become 



vi PREFACE 

more rapid ; results which in the early history of man 
required centuries to mature now arrive and pass 
with greater speed. The forces of nature become 
chained to the uses of man and aid in the rapid 
transfer of thought and accomplishment between 
the races. This perhaps will account for some of the 
kaleidoscopic changes in the forms of art within the 
limits of our own experience. We inherited, almost 
at first hand, the grand achievements of the school 
of 1830 — when the romanticists threw their spell 
over landscape art — and it is only recently that the 
followers of the plein-air school succeeded in bringing 
a new attraction to the painter's art by their studies 
in the mysteries of color and sunlight. Now, we 
have a crisis in art with almost every revolution of 
our planet and Tachistes, Pointillistes, Post-Impres- 
sionistes, and Synthetistes give place in rapid succes- 
sion to Nubians, Cubistes, and Futuristes. There 
is a characteristic, planted deeply in the fundamental 
essence of man, which has a large influence upon 
these successive developments: it is the tendency of 
human nature to reaction. When the pendulum 
swings to the right, there follows the swing, often 
more violent, in the opposite direction. 

In the art of painting, it will perhaps suffice to turn 
our eyes for the sake of this inquiry to France, that 
great mother and home of the arts, because there 
nearly all of the reactions, calm or violent, reasonable 
or lacking in sanity, may first be detected. In that 
country we shall always be able to find, if we keep 
our eyes widely open, the first impulses which act 
upon the pendulum of art as it swings from side to 
side. 

These first tendencies to motion are generally 
confined to a few advanced thinkers, but it is by no 



PREFACE vii 

means easy to recognize them in their early stages 
or to differentiate the really valuable from those 
bizarre and ephemeral moods which come and go and 
are lacking in true stability. Thus we have had in 
France quite recently a reaction from the bright and 
gay colors of the impressionists to the somber and 
sometimes almost disagreeable hues of the Nubians. 
With the Pointillistes and the Tachistes we need not 
linger, for their glories are largely merged in the 
general progress of events, however much the influ- 
ences of their works may still be detected. Just now 
we have the Cubistes flaunting their banners in the 
salons, and for the very latest arrivals the Futur- 
istes, strangely enough a movement proceeding not 
from the French, but from a little group of Italians 
exhibiting in the French Capital. 

What matters it if we see in the crazy productions 
of these "Masters" only disjointed bodies flying 
through space, accompanied by accessories of sky- 
rockets, pin wheels and other puzzling objects whose 
mission cannot be determined! In these latest 
movements, unlike many which have preceded them, 
we find their advocates only too eager to throw over- 
board all the lessons of the past; in fact it seems 
impossible for the imagination, even when stimulated 
by those artificial aids to which, alas! mankind is 
sometimes addicted, to go farther. The Futuristes 
themselves acclaim with superb effrontery, "We 
are young, and our art is violently revolutionary." 
One may very well add — Yes! but may it not be 
sacrilege to call it art at all? The strange part of 
their claims is that there are already imitators, 
plagiarists, "lacking in real talent," and another 
strange fact is that they cannot understand the 
"stupidity" of men endowed with divine instincts, 



viii PREFACE 

who are willing to sit before nature by the hour, in 
order to absorb inspiration from her varying moods; 
and as to portraits, why! if you desire an actual 
image of your friend, there is photography which 
will fill all the specifications. Oh no! their mission 
is to paint vibrations, and, kind reader, if you desire 
your movements through space painted, in little 
bits to be put together as a puzzle in patchwork, 
small spots here and there, a touch of light in some 
obscure corner and a shadow far removed, so that 
you cannot, save by the grace of inspiration, guess 
at the connection, there is nothing to prevent you 
and your money from an immediate parting. 

These little wooden images of a new faith urge us to 
combine against the "tyranny of the words 'harmony' 
and 'good taste,'" which heretofore have proved such 
safe guides for the old ship in her battles with the 
waves, and offer us in return "Divisionisme," appar- 
ently a new force with which we shall be enabled to 
demolish the works of Rembrandt, of Goya, and of 
Rodin, and, in fact, of all the great masters of past 
times, and erect for our new worship the most intan- 
gible images left upon our retinas after a rapid glance 
in a crowded street.* 

The true Futuriste is the perfected product whose 
dreams are of conquests beyond the ken of ordinary 
comprehension, and if you cannot, after frequent 
turnings, identify his work, so much the worse for 
you, my friend, — Go to! purge the body of its brutal 
ignorance and tune your mind to celestial harmonies 
until the purified instincts of your psychological per- 
spectives enable you to discern what we think ' 'we see." 

* "Que de fois sur la joue de la personne avec laquelle nous causions 
n'avons nous pas vu le cheval qui passait tres loin au bout de la rue!" 

Manifeste des Peintres Futuristes. 



PREFACE ix 

If all this be art, then art is gone mad and we have 
come to the parting of the ways. Happily, with all 
our excitements, we still have our senses left, and 
we may turn from these performances of the ring, 
from these driveling actions of idiots, to the contem- 
plation of true art, illuminated by the calm and 
serene light of reason. 

Here we may well ask ourselves, What is true art? Is 
there any standard by which our wandering footsteps 
may be safely led? Has the history of the past given 
us any star to guide us in our way? If we but turn 
the page, we shall be gratified to find that the art of 
the old masters still shines with undiminished bril- 
liancy. The inspired lessons which they daily drew 
from nature still reflect upon our course. All good 
painting since their day still remains for our inspira- 
tion, whether it comes from the sunny south or from 
the frozen north, whether it was fettered by conven- 
tional laws which limited its progress or whether it 
had burst its shackles and become warm and brilliant 
with the light that nature has given. All of these 
phases of art were necessary and useful portions of 
the great temple which she has raised. If we follow 
we shall be safe, even though we add another pillar 
to the structure. If we allow ourselves to stray into 
some side path, even though it be free from the toil 
of the other and easier for our climb, we shall fall by 
the wayside. 

One of the fundamental laws of success in art, as in 
all other branches of human activity, is labor, patient 
and continued in the face of all obstacles, and here 
too we shall find no royal road to the summit. This 
labor must be guided by a study of nature, for amid 
all the varying fashions she only remains true as the 
needle to its pole. Nature only is infinite in ideas, 



x PREFACE 

in composition, in effects; man only is finite, and 
when he relies upon his own imaginings his results 
will inevitably follow a path bordered only by repeti- 
tions of the commonplace. 

The one word which has aided man throughout the 
whole history of his studies of art is nature. The 
successes of the school of 1830, as well as those of the 
plein-airists and the marvelous works of the Dutch 
and Spanish masters, were all founded on a devoted 
study of nature; only faithful work of this kind will 
endure. 

It is true that no two persons see and appreciate 
the same effects in nature. Some organizations are 
peculiarly in sympathy with one view and some 
with another, but all have it in their power through 
serious study to teach some lessons which will abide. 
Through all the ages we have important and valuable 
examples of art which are scrupulously treasured by 
man. These may belong to one or to another school 
and to one or the other we may be particularly 
devoted through accident or study, but the fact still 
remains that solid reason stands back of it all and 
that good and abiding work may always be found 
to rest upon nature. 

In this view there is great consolation; without it 
there is no sheet anchor to which the honest student 
of art may cling. Amid all the diversities of taste 
in the museums of the world, we shall find running 
through the different collections a golden thread 
which is common to them all, just as in the cordage 
of the British Navy a scarlet thread is ever present 
to show its origin. In one we find strength in 
Oriental art; in another fine examples of the Dutch 
school; in another of the classical epoch; in another 
of Russian, Scandinavian, Italian, or American Art. 



PREFACE xi 

In one we may wander with Corot or with Millet in 
their efforts to portray the beauties of landscape art 
or the poses of the human body; in another we may 
find rich examples of the English portraitists or of 
the founders of the open-air school ; but as a rule we 
may hold up as a measure for our admiration the 
standard of truth to nature as the safest guide for 
judgment. 

If this feeble attempt to formulate some of the 
lessons for leading us to decide that this art is good 
and will last, while another is bad and will perish, 
appeals to the reader, the writer will be more than 
satisfied. His own ability to appreciate and admire 
many of the most subtle effects in nature, he owes 
largely to those painters who have unlocked the door. 
Among these is one whom he has known for many 
years, whose works he admired from the first, and 
from whose continued and persistent efforts each 
year there have resulted constantly increasing and 
ripening powers to reveal some of the lessons which 
nature offers with a lavish hand. 

This artist, W. Dodge Macknight, the subject of 
this appreciation, is a wonderful master of the art of 
water-color painting, he is a close student of nature, 
so close, in fact, that he never attempts to portray her 
except in her presence; for him the studio is simply 
a place to collect pictures and receive friends. By 
devoting the whole of his attention to transcribing 
what nature invents, he avoids wasting his energies 
in creating art, and he also avoids some of the pitfalls 
which beset those who rely upon their own inventions 
and whose works in consequence inevitably are but 
repetitions in idea, composition, and execution. 

To the life and works of this great artist let us now 
turn our attention for a brief period. 



DODGE MACKNIGHT 

Water Color Painter 



It was in the spring of 1888 that the writer first 
saw Macknight's water colors. The artist was 
painting in France at that time and sent over a 
number of his pictures to Messrs. Doll & Richards, 
who then had a gallery at No. 2 Park Street, Boston. 
The pictures attracted the writer at once, but it was 
not until the following year that he acquired one. 
It was painted at Fontvielle, in the South of France; 
it represents a yellowish road, the entrance to the 
village which occupies the middle distance, fading 
into the beautiful blue sky above. Every one said 
that it was too highly colored to look like nature, 
but such has been the influence of the impressionist 
school on the development of our sense of sight, 
during the past twenty years, that it now looks 
quite low in tone and altogether normal. 

Since this event, the writer has not only acquired 
pictures from subsequent exhibitions, but has sought 
to add to his collection, examples of Macknight's 
art painted earlier in his career before his style was 
fully matured, so that he now possesses pictures 
painted in every year since 1883, when Macknight 
turned his thoughts seriously to the career of an 
artist. 

As the deep admiration that the writer has felt 
and, in fact, expressed in numerous articles, is now 
shared by many excellent judges of art and Mr. 
Macknight's reputation is well established, the writer 



2 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

has thought that it might not be amiss to leave to 
the public the benefit of the studies that he has been 
enabled to make owing to certain favorable oppor- 
tunities which have occurred, and so, with the good 
wishes of friends, he has entered upon the pleasant 
work of following Mr. Macknight's history from his 
birth and tracing the gradual unfolding of his talents 
and the steady advances in his art. 

It is perhaps almost needless to add that he 
believes Macknight to be blessed with a remarkable 
vision and that he has the power of expressing what 
he sees, two valuable attributes which, when united 
with power of application, result in works of what 
we call genius. 

ANTECEDENTS 

On the father's side, Macknight is descended 
from Scottish ancestors and on the mother's side, 
from New England antecedents. His father, who 
is now living with his son at Sandwich, is advanced 
in years, but hale and hearty, and he takes as much 
interest in passing events as many who are much 
younger. He was born in Philadelphia and moved 
to Providence, R. I., early in life, where he resided 
until his son established a home on Cape Cod. Mrs. 
Macknight was Miss Davenport of New Bedford. 

BIRTH 

The son, W. Dodge Macknight, was born in Provi- 
dence, October 1st, 1860. He attended the public 
schools and was graduated from the High School 
in 1876. He soon afterwards passed the necessary 
examinations for admission to Brown University, 
but did not enter college. Macknight was always 
fond of study and learned easily, but his delight 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 3 

in drawing and a strong natural bent in the direction 
of art lured to other paths than those leading to an 
academic career. While still a boy, he had painted 
the scenery for amateur theatricals and sometimes 
had occupied his evenings with painting for recrea- 
tion; and so successfully, that his mind turned to 
carrying on this work on a larger scale for a profes- 
sion. 

BEGINS WORK 

A search to find whether there was in Providence 
anyone engaged in this kind of work, resulted in 
finding a man at the opera house who was a pro- 
fessional scene painter and, when times were dull, 
a sign painter for business houses. To this man 
Macknight secured a letter of introduction which 
resulted finally in the employment of the boy as 
an apprentice, the agreement being that he should 
work for one year without salary, after which he 
might secure a moderate compensation. To this 
work he immediately bent his energies, and at the 
end of the year was rewarded with the munificent 
sum of one dollar per day and was soon doing his 
share of the business. 

In 1877 Macknight had the misfortune to lose 
his mother. In 1878 friction ensued between his 
employer and the apprentice. The former found 
that his work was in a fair way to be eclipsed by his 
assistant and he concluded to carry on the business 
alone. In the worry that followed, Macknight 
was advised by his father to take a trip to New Bed- 
ford to enlarge the limits of his horizon, so he went 
to that city to visit an uncle. Here the young man 
continued his water color studies. He naturally 
chose that medium because the studies of scene 



4 ' DODGE MACKNIGHT 

painters were then and still are made either in water 
color or in distemper. At the opera house in New 
Bedford, it was planned at this time to renew the 
scenery, and the professional scene painters were 
hoping to secure the work. 

"Do you really think that you could do it?" said 
his uncle. 

"Certainly," responded Macknight. 

"Go ahead, then, and make a study for the drop 
curtain," said his uncle. 

This was done and the sketch submitted to the 
Directors, the design was admired, but they hesitated 
to award the work to a boy with so little experience. 
All objections were, however, finally overcome and the 
old drop curtain which had disturbed New Bedford 
audiences for nearly half a century was relegated to 
the scrap heap. This curtain had depicted the 
temple of Vesta and one of its most objectionable 
features was a woman holding a basket upon her 
head so drawn as to make her figure appear as high 
as the highest turret of the temple. Macknight 
chose for his subject a wide yellow road, disappear- 
ing over a hillside. The Directors insisted that the 
artist should add some houses, but a compromise 
finally resulted. in the addition of a distant spire. The 
rest of the theater scenery, and also scenery for "Uncle 
Tom's Cabin," was later awarded to Macknight. 

There is no truer saying than "Birds of a feather 
flock together." In New Bedford were several per- 
sons artistically inclined, amateurs and professionals, 
and they formed a little society and occasionally 
went out into the country to paint. Among the 
pictures produced at this time by Macknight were 
two which were framed and hung in the window of 
the local gallery. On returning from a visit to 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 5 

Martha's Vineyard, Macknight's uncle informed 
him that Mr. Charles Taber, an elderly Quaker 
who was engaged in publishing reproductions of art 
goods under the firm name of Taber Art Co. of New 
Bedford, had been to see him. When Macknight 
returned the visit, Mr. Taber said: 

"I have seen your pictures and like them. Will 
you paint me one hundred?" 

A bargain was made, the pictures delivered and the 
work resulted in his employment by the company. 
Macknight's duties consisted in directing the pro- 
ductions of a number of girls, who colored photo- 
graphs, made small landscapes on satin, and similar 
work. The young artist would paint a landscape, 
the girls would copy it, and then Macknight would 
put on the finishing touches, after which these "art 
goods" were given to traveling agents to distribute, 
especially in the West. Another branch of the busi- 
ness was the touching up of negatives. 

This work in New Bedford lasted for several years 
and would undoubtedly have continued for an indefi- 
nite period, had not a wider ambition entered the 
mind of the young artist. 

Among Macknight's friends was an artist just 
returned from Paris who advised him to go across 
the water and take some real art instruction in an 
"atelier." This idea found a responsive place in 
Macknight's thoughts, but an important obstacle 
lay in the path. He was without the necessary 
means. During his short battle with life he had 
maintained himself in the fray, and not without some 
credit; but the balance in his savings was but a drop 
in the bucket and he certainly could not expect to 
earn much in Paris during the four years of study. 
For several years he had been rooming with an 



6 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

organist, Mr. Allen W. Swan, who nobly came for- 
ward with an offer to finance the undertaking, which 
meant a payment of $600 per year for four years. 
The nobility of the act may be appreciated when it 
is considered that the repayment of the money was, 
in the natural order of events, subject to many 
hazards; and, as a matter of fact, more than two 
decades passed before Macknight was able to pay 
the last installment of the obligation. 

GOES TO PARIS 

Up to this time, Macknight had practically done 
nothing from nature, save a few sketches and some 
small landscapes in oil. During the autumn of 1883 
the young artist began his preparations for his 
departure to Paris, that Mecca of the art student. 
With a letter or two in his pocket, introductions to 
pupils in Bonnat's atelier, he sailed from New York 
the day after Christmas, and arrived in. Paris one 
rainy night and with little or no knowledge of the 
French language. In the meantime, Bonnat had 
given up his instruction in the atelier and had been 
succeeded by F. Cormon, a conservative of conserva- 
tives in matters of art instruction, which consisted 
of two visits during the week to the school and a 
return visit by the students on Sunday mornings to 
the artist's studio to have their work criticized. 
Before gaining admission to the atelier, it was the 
custom to submit sketches to show the proficiency 
of the applicant; but our artist had no drawings, so 
Cormon said: "We will put him at work on a cast 
and see how he gets on." When the time came for 
inspection, the master said to the interpreter: "I 
like the way this man tries to work out the scheme; 
he may continue." 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 7 

The winter was passed in working from the cast. 
Cormon was a distinguished draughtsman and he 
praised his new pupil's work saying: "This man has 
a very correct eye; he draws well and always will 
do so." 

During his short experience in Paris, Macknight 
lived with French people and he gained such rapid 
proficiency in the language that he was soon acting 
as interpreter for the half-dozen English and Ameri- 
can students who were in the Cormon atelier. 

The summer of 1884 arrived and Macknight, with 
some others, went to the country around Chartres, 
and at last settled in Moret-sur-Loing, near Fon- 
tainebleau, where some work was done from nature 
and in the autumn a series of small water colors 
completed ; these were of a grayish or brownish tone 
and were taken back to Paris. When Cormon saw 
them, he expressed much satisfaction and finally 
said: "Bravo! Macknight. These are fine. I must 
show them to my friend Busson, the best critic in 
landscape art that I know of." 

Naturally, Macknight was much elated and he 
rose rapidly in the esteem of the other students. The 
pictures were finally sent to the United States, but 
no one seemed to take much interest in them. One, 
which was exhibited in the Salon of 1885, is now in 
the possession of the writer. 

Mrs. Copley Green purchased one from a little 
exhibition by Doll & Richards. When Mr. Macknight, 
the elder, saw these pictures, he wrote to his son 
that they were not properly painted and enclosed 
pictures cut from a catalogue with some parental 
advice to "paint like that." 

During the winter of 1884-5, Macknight one day 
began a drawing from a model outside of his 



8 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

regular course but, as before, Cormon, when he saw 
the study, remarked: "You may continue." In the 
spring of 1885 our artist went to Montpezat in 
company with an atelier friend, a Dane from Copen- 
hagen. Later the little party moved to Aubenas. 
There the persons who had advanced the money for 
the education of the Dane learned that he was paint- 
ing in the country from nature and they protested 
that they had sent him to Paris to learn to draw; so, 
back to Paris he was obliged to go. Macknight 
later visited Aries and Fontvielle and in the latter 
village he remained and painted. Cholera threat- 
ened in the autumn and he was obliged to return to 
Moret, where many studies from nature were made. 
On the return to the atelier, Cormon did not con- 
tinue his praises of Macknight's efforts with the same 
enthusiasm as formerly. The work was beginning 
to broaden and that was not in harmony with the 
teachings of the school. 

LEAVES THE ATELIER 

In February, 1886, Macknight left the atelier, 
never to return. There was no disagreement with 
Cormon, as has been publicly stated; on the con- 
trary, student and master parted with the best of 
feeling and mutual regard. Macknight simply went 
at the call from nature and that is all there was to 
the story. He went alone to the Midi and finally 
settled at Cassis, where he remained during the sum- 
mer, returning to Moret in the autumn. His friend 
Boch, from Belgium, and an Australian, Russell, 
joined him there. Russell was an ardent believer in 
the value of Macknight's work and he had previously 
taken over to England some of his water colors, but 
the style was so entirely different from that of the 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 9 

English that the dealers would not take them. It 
was at Moret that Boch and Macknight made up 
their minds to go to Algeria for the winter, a step 
which undoubtedly influenced Macknight's whole 
life-work, and fixed in his mind that appreciation for 
the brilliant effects of sunlight which has charac- 
terized his subsequent efforts. Cormon was very 
kind in aiding the proposed plan; he took him to 
his friend Guillaumet, who gave him a letter to the 
Governor General of Algeria. 

GOES TO ALGERIA 

When the friends arrived in Algiers late in the year, 
they met some artists who advised them to go farther 
south, and pictured the attractions of Boghari. After 
a journey of two days by stage, they arrived at the 
little Arab settlement, but the weather was so cold 
that they were obliged to buy wood to keep warm 
and at last a snowstorm drove them farther south. 
Then followed five days of staging, fifteen hours per 
day, which brought them to Ghardaia, one of the 
five confederated cities of the M'Zab, inhabited by 
Mozabites. It is a French outpost in the desert and 
is a walled town. There the artists spent the winter, 
and there Macknight tried to solve the mysteries of 
the bright sunlight. 

DEVELOPMENT OF STYLE 

In Ghardaia a change came in Macknight's work. 
It at once became more brilliant and the colors purer. 
One of the most important of the M'Zab pictures is 
before the writer. It is much longer than the usual 
size. The dimensions are 17" x 2934". For tone, the 
picture may be divided into three parts, light blue 
sky, white masonry houses, and salmon-colored 



10 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

ground and walls. In the middle distance is the 
walled town with its oriental buildings and a low hill 
on the left, with a small group of sitting figures out- 
side of the walls. On the right, nearly in the fore- 
ground, is a low white-domed refreshment house 
admirably modeled. At the door on the extreme 
right are two figures, while to the left of the door and 
in the immediate foreground stands a woman, and 
behind her, slightly to the left, a man. Nearly one- 
half of the picture is dominated by the yellowish 
ground and walls, blazing in the fierce sunlight. One 
feels the intense heat, the strange Arabian life, and 
the absence of vegetation. It is signed and dated 
1887. 

The consummation of Macknight's particular 
style, however, did not fully arrive until the follow- 
ing year. 

In the spring of 1887 the artists returned to France. 
Macknight stopped at Cassis and Boch kept on to 
Paris. Cassis is near Marseilles and on the Mediter- 
ranean; there he remained during the summer, and 
painted a series of attractive landscapes, which formed 
a part of the 1888 exhibition in Boston. If these 
pictures are examined carefully, it will be noticed 
that the effects are obtained with broken color; the 
brown hues had taken their final departure and the 
key of painting raised. The writer owns several of 
the series; one of them, No. 3 of the 1888 exhibition, 
entitled: "Study of Trees, Cassis," is particularly 
attractive. The trees seem to be swinging in the 
wind and the general atmospheric effect is now 
grayish, but it was freely criticized at that time as 
being too bright in color to resemble nature. 

In the autumn of 1887 Mr. Swan from New Bed- 
ford, Mr. Boch, and Macknight made a walking 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 11 

excursion through the Ardeche, which is traversed 
by the Cevennes Mountains, and later visited Bel- 
gium. Macknight returned to Moret for the winter. 
The year following was destined to open upon the 
rapid development of his style. In the summer he 
settled at Fontvielle for the second time, and painted 
some village scenes which still exercise a strange 
fascination. The color was broken, that is to say, 
even the broad areas of color were traversed by 
patches of other color to break up or to make more 
vivid the impression of light. The artist had not 
yet arrived at the point where he could use pure 
color bright enough to produce the desired effect. 

These Fontvielle pictures were, however, most 
charming. Some of them were quite small but 
painted so simply and broadly, and in such freedom 
from dirty color, as to convey the idea of being much 
larger than they really were. One of the most 
attractive of this series was No. 11, 1889 exhibi- 
tion, "Street with Pines — Fontvielle." The fore- 
ground is an open space at the junction of several 
streets; on the right are some large trees which 
shelter a kind of shrine or public fountain; in the 
middle distance a crooked street winds away and 
several figures hug the sides near the buildings; the 
general tone is a bluish mauve; the wonderful blue 
sky is broken with lilac strokes; the plein-air effect 
is charming. 

It was in Fontvielle that a curious incident hap- 
pened to our artist. He was painting an interesting 
and picturesque old shrine in the public square when 
a storm interrupted the progress of the picture. He 
returned soon afterward to complete the study 
when, much to his surprise, the shrine had disap- 
peared ; not a trace remained on the ground to show 



12 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

where it had once stood. A disagreement between 
the Church and municipal authorities had resulted in 
the removal of the ancient shrine. Two priests called 
on Macknight and asked to see his incomplete study, 
saying they were going to make an effort to rebuild 
the shrine but they lacked a plan and they thought 
they might get an idea of the relative position of the 
stones in the structure from the artist's work. 

In the autumn of 1888 Macknight returned to 
M oret and there his real style was developed at once. 
The colors assumed a dazzling purity, and the auda- 
city of execution and the brilliancy of the effects have 
never been surpassed. Macknight had come into 
his own ; his style was born. It was at this time that 
the artist began the painting of that long series of 
pictures which culminated in those remarkable 
Mexican subjects which, with some wonderful snow 
effects from the White Mountains, were exhibited 
recently at the St. Botolph Club. It is interesting 
also to note that the sizes of almost all of his water 
colors painted since 1888 have been practically the 
same. They are made by cutting Whatman's Im- 
perial sheets into two pieces, making about 15"x22". 
It seems as if the painter had at last hit upon the 
technique suited to his visions and the most conveni- 
ent size adapted to its expression. 

It is perhaps impossible to solve the problem of 
the influences which mold the individual style of 
any great artist. During the formative period of 
Macknight's work, which may safely be stated as 
occurring between 1885-88, he certainly had abundant 
opportunity to see the onward march of the plein- 
air movement in France; but a careful study of his 
pictures painted during this time does not reveal any 
sudden adoption of any other painter's method. 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 13 

Neither can his particularly individual style be 
traced to a conversion to outside influences. In 1886 
his work began to broaden, but very gradually; in 
1887, while in Algeria, it suddenly became more 
brilliant and it seems to have been the oases in the 
desert from which he derived his conception of the 
wonders of sunlight. During the summer, on his 
return to France, his water colors were all more or 
less bathed in violet color, which became still more 
apparent in the summer of 1888 at Fontvielle, when 
he made a great step forward in his recognition of the 
real colors in the shadows; but in the autumn of that 
year he seems to have recognized, as never before, 
the great differences in local color, and to have solved 
the problem of representing it in great purity and 
brilliancy. The artist himself, with whom the writer 
has conferred since the discovery of the exact se- 
quence of the foregoing events, seems to have been 
unconscious of the changes taking place in his style 
and he is of the opinion that it was not due to the 
influence of any other painter. This evidence, when 
properly weighed, has brought the writer to the 
belief that Macknight's technique was a gradual 
evolution from within; and that while it probably 
would not have developed in the same way in an 
earlier period of the history of art, it was a purely 
personal expression, culminating in the autumn of 
1888. 

In the writer's collection are three pictures painted 
at this time, and they were all exhibited in the second 
Doll & Richards' exhibition of 1889; one, No. 23, 
"The Bridge of St. Mammes on the Seine," is a bold 
picture of a lattice iron bridge in a purple light; an- 
other, No. 26, "Sunny Morning," is a red-roofed 
barn, with intense blue shadows "on yellowish-green 



14 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

ground; the third, No. 12, "Boat Builder's Yard — 
Moret," represents a little group of concrete build- 
ings with red tile roofs, boats, a donkey, and promi- 
nent lilac-hued trees in the foreground. 

It was perhaps fortunate on the whole that Mac- 
knight's resources were so limited that he was 
enabled to husband all his powers for the great 
struggle to hold his head above the waters, and to 
express his ideas and appreciation of nature without 
any extraneous diversions. There was, during these 
early years, nothing to call him away from the pur- 
suit of his ideals. The great mass of good work 
throughout the world is mainly produced in this way 
and ever will be. There must have been, at times, 
strong temptation to give up the fight and return to 
the business success of the preceding years, but hap- 
pily the artist persisted in clinging to the narrow path 
which he had entered. 

EXHIBITIONS 

1888 

Preceding the regular exhibitions, a small collec- 
tion of Macknight's earliest work after he went to 
Paris was shown by Doll & Richards in Boston, as 
already related. In January, 1888, the above firm 
opened their regular gallery at 2 Park Street, Boston, 
to their first public exhibition of the artist's water 
colors. Since that time, seventeen other exhibi- 
tions have been held by the same firm. 

There was a large attendance, many being at- 
tracted by curiosity to see the vivid portrayal of 
nature thus submitted to Bostonians for the first 
time. 

There were thirty-five pictures, half of them quite 
small; ten had been painted in Africa, and the rest in 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 15 

Moret-sur-Loing, Cassis, Montpezat, Aubenas, etc.; 
one of them had been exhibited in the Salon of 1887, 
another at the Versailles Exhibition of 1886, and a 
third at the Paris Exhibition of 1885. 

The critics, as a whole, were very tolerant. The 
Herald simply stated that "one feels the differences 
of atmosphere, color, and architecture, from those 
to which we are accustomed, and the artist arouses 
our interest by the directness with which he has 
expressed his impression." 

The Transcript stated: "The effect of the full sun- 
light, shining with intense and dazzling brilliancy 
upon white walls and dusty avenues without shade, 
producing an intolerable glare, and suggesting a 
severe heat, has not been painted often with more 
force, directness, and boldness. The wonder of the 
South and of the Orient, the secret of the profound 
predilection of artists for these regions, the admira- 
tion and despair of many a painter, is the light, with 
its magical depth and power, its marvelous con- 
trasts, its rich and generous range of splendid color. 
All of Mr. Macknight's sketches prove that he has 
felt the fascination of this element in all its potency, 
and that he has been under the same spell which 
charmed Delacroix, Marilhot, Fromentin, Decamps, 
and Fortuny; an influence which awakes in every 
temperament susceptible to the highest beauty of 
color the most ardent ambition to excel in the direc- 
tion which led the old Venetians to immortal fame. 
Merely as illustrations of North Africa and the 
country bordering on the Mediterranean, these 
brilliant impressions have a positive value of their 
own. The colors are pure and frank; the method 
highly original and varied according to the character 
of the subject." 



16 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

The Advertiser stated: "He is a young man who 
but a few years ago struck out for himself, and his 
work here shows he has not mistaken his vocation." 

The Boston Journal critic wrote: "After one has 
come from the study of gray and moist weather 
affected by most water-colorists, it is exhilarating 
to meet clear blue skies and lands cheerfully trans- 
lated into bright hues ... 'A Mountain Road' 
near Marseilles is a still, quiet scene of a dusty road 
leading by the side of brown cliffs to a distant valley 
between green hills. The sun pours down on the 
white road and the heat rests heavily upon the hills. 
'On the Mediterranean Shore,' exhibited at Ver- 
sailles in 1886, in which one looks beyond a branch of 
a tree out upon the blue sea with its green shore, is 
a delightful picture. In No. 24, the water glistens 
with admirable effect. A 'Study of Trees, Cassis,' 
can be appreciated by those who understand 
the difficulty of representing trees in motion. The 
thick boughs are bending to the breeze with fine 
motion." 

It will be apparent from the foregoing that these 
first pictures, painted in his transition period, were 
well understood and not unfavorably received. Eight 
of the pictures were sold at quite moderate prices. It 
is an interesting fact that this is above the general 
average of pictures sold from succeeding exhibitions 
for many years. It is only quite recently that the 
number has increased, and at the same time, the 
prices have been materially advanced. The first 
pictures brought from fifty to one hundred and fifty 
dollars. When the expenses attending the sale and 
the commissions were subtracted, the sum remaining 
could not go very far towards supporting the artist 
for a year. 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 17 

1889 

The second exhibition was held at 2 Park Street, 
Boston, in March, 1889. There were two pastels: 
A, "Objects from the Soudan and the Touaregs 
(a race of Arabs in the Desert)"; B, "Edge of the 
Forest, Autumn;" and thirty water colors. There 
were a number of small pictures in the collection and 
several of still life. The pictures had been painted 
largely at Fontvielle in the summer of 1888 and at 
Moret in the autumn of that year, and already 
referred to as representing the final development of 
his style. They were very vivid, and considering 
that they were painted twenty-three years ago, before 
the work of the so-called impressionists had been 
fully accepted, it seems quite remarkable that they 
did not incite a riot. Yet with the exception of a 
few rabid critics, fair justice was given to the new art 
and its possibilities admitted. 

The following extracts from the local papers are 
here inserted: 

From the Boston Evening Transcript, Feb. 14, i88g. 

* * * No more bitumen effects, no more scumbling 
and glazing for tone; pure color and plenty of it is the cry; 
even Daubigny and Rousseau are old-fashioned compared 
with us! 

Is there any permanent good to art in this fashion? Un- 
doubtedly. Shall we accept the new ideas unreservedly? 
Not by any means. Can a badly drawn and poorly composed 
picture be good? Of course it can. What is the main merit 
of the impressionists? Their color. Does their color always 
save them from failure? Not always. And are their failures 
amusing? They are; they are hideous and execrable, but 
their successes are glorious. The good to be accomplished 
by the movement is this — it causes a fresh stimulation to 
the perceptive faculties, awakens the spirit of inquiry, destroys 
reliance on traditional standards, and sends the artist forth 



18 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

minus his preconceptions, to look at Nature instead of pic- 
tures, and to forget, if he can, that any one ever painted 
before him. * * * Mr. Macknight's work is superior 
in some of its qualities to that of the impressionists of French 
origin. He is a good draughtsman, and for brilliancy and 
delicacy of effect some of his village bits are extraordinary. 

From the Boston Journal. 

WORKS OF AN IMPRESSIONIST 

* * * A superficial observer would not appreciate, in 
all probability, the violent contrasts of a vivid, cloudless 
blue sky with a glaring orange roof; but an artist, or an obser- 
ver interested in watching the tendency in art, will realize 
the importance of this extreme example of the method of 
the modern impressionist Having become accustomed to 
the dazzling brilliancy of the exhibition, one may reflect 
whether the artist could outdo nature even in his brightest 
tints. A full sunlight produces effects which even Turner 
failed to rival — much more, then, W. Dodge Macknight. 
Looking for the most enjoyable feature of the thirty water 
colors, one may notice the fine draughtsmanship of the artist, 
displayed particularly in his representation of the French 
wall towns. The stone walls and buildings have a decision 
and firmness of the material itself. All the elements of a 
French street are realized with extraordinary force and deci- 
sion. One of these town views illustrates the unconven- 
tional style of the artist. The painting is entitled "A Windy 
Day." Instead of painting the customary swirl of cloud and 
the frenzied tossing of branches, the artist has pictured a 
uniform sky and a collection of stone dwellings behind a wall. 
The only visible sign of the wind is a blue-coated figure strug- 
gling against the blast outside of the wall; and yet the impres- 
sion which the picture conveys is that of the town's being 
swept clean by a stiff gale. Another work of high rank, 
which does not show the crudity of color displayed in some 
of the pictures, is a charming snow scene, quite the gem of 
the collection. No. 4, the "Road to Montmajor," is a valu- 
able example of the artist's work. It is evident that Mr. 
Macknight is working out with sincere determination the 
method hinted at last year in his first exhibition; but it is 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 19 

to be questioned whether even a determined impressionist 
ought to inflict upon the public such extraordinary pastels as 
these two on exhibition. 

From the Boston Daily Advertiser. 

The water colors of the impressionist, Dodge Macknight, 
* * * find enthusiastic admirers, and last year found 
purchasers in several of the leading Boston artists who say 
that these daring little works, hung in their studios, exert 
upon them constantly a certain stimulating influence. These 
artists have been to see the present exhibit, admire the "dash 
and spirit" of the young artist more than ever, and lose no 
opportunity of commending his paintings to friends and 
acquaintances who have means to purchase them. That the 
artist is at present a struggler for fame, rich only with his 
convictions of abundant recognition in the future, is apparent 
simply from the setting of his studies. There are no rich 
frames. All are bordered uniformly with a plain inch-wide 
molding of wood. Each, owing nothing to its environment, 
stands strictly on its own merit. 

From the Boston Post, March 25, i88q. 

THE PECULIAR WATER COLORS AT DOLL & RICHARDS' 

"The pioneer is always peculiar," said William M. Hunt. 
Mr. Dodge Macknight is a pioneer, and every visitor to the 
gallery of Doll & Richards will say at once that he is peculiar. 
He is in the advance guard of the water-colorists now working 
in Europe. He is destined soon to be a leader, to found a 
school. Already the artists who stand highest are most loud 
in their praises. Here is a man who is living for an idea. He 
is tremendously in earnest, and every movement of his brush 
is actuated by the most intense seriousness. He is going to 
show the world the meaning of the words color, light, space, 
distance. So fully is he possessed by what he has to do that 
he seeks involuntarily those regions where the light is so 
intense that it almost burns the eyes to look upon it. Tan- 
giers gave him his keynote, but Southern France has lately 
been his field, and any one of his sketches made in the former 
place, when hung for a moment in the gallery, pales before the 



20 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

intensity of his present color. A few examples of still life are 
in the exhibition, and very interesting they are. Their color 
is as rich and satisfying as that of fine old stained glass. Two 
or three of the studies of bright sunlight seem to be especial 
objects of criticism for their intense color. The two fire-red 
roofs, with orange foreground and perhaps purple water, are 
on the highest possible key. From these we are let down to 
something more within the comprehension of the ordinary 
eye and mind, like the "Boat Builders' Yard — Moret," 
where the strong and brilliant foreground leads to a delightful 
row of delicate gray trees. The "Moret Bridge" is a daring 
piece of work. The iron structure is bathed in that violet 
atmosphere which appeals strongly to the artist, whose draw- 
ing, by the way, is masterly. The "Road to Les Baux" 
easily catches the eye by its strong contrast of white sand and 
intense blue sky. Those who know the color of this particular 
locality say that it hardly reaches the burning brightness of 
the real scene. Fontvielle seems to have furnished a range 
of subjects well-suited to the artist's glowing sense of color. 
There are village street scenes, views from the tops of houses, 
sketches done in the different seasons — a great variety, all 
characteristic, all testifying to the loyalty of this strong dis- 
ciple of color, light, and truth. When he paints a gray day, it 
is still a day with color. He seems not to have one morbid 
note in his keen, alert, vivifying mind. It is an exhibition 
which cannot be seen in a hurried visit. These pictures must 
be lived with. They are like all manifestations of genius — 
not easy to understand. Some of them may repel at first, 
nearly all end by becoming intensely fascinating. The art- 
ists are most enthusiastic over the collection. 

Helen M. Knowlton. 



From the Boston Post. 

NATURE AND ART 

My dear Taverner: — Will you permit me to address a few 
words to you on the subject of Mr. Macknight's exhibition 
at Doll & Richards'? I have been a close student of Nature, 
here and abroad, for many years, but in my wildest dreams 
and imaginings I have never seen her so portrayed. It may 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 21 

be that in some far away spot Nature exhibits herself in this 
strange motley, possibly in some planet lately brought to mor- 
tal ken by the Lick telescope; but nothing in heaven as de- 
scribed in Revelations, or on earth within the scope of my 
experience has ever approximated to these prismatic and 
astounding feats of color. When I read that our artists are 
most enthusiastic over the collection, I shudder lest I may 
possibly have gone through my life, thus far, with a color 
sense absolutely deadened and wholly inadequate to discover 
the hues and tones of natural scenery. If it is genius to paint 
such stage effects and to depict the beauties of nature with 
brushes dipped in brilliant purples, blues, yellows, and scarlets, 
I am grateful that our artists, as a body, are more moderate 
and less afflicted with the divine afflatus. Possibly I am all 
wrong; if so, I have plenty of sympathy among my brother 
artists and critical friends, and I am happy and content in my 
ignorance. The fact that Mr. Macknight terms himself an 
impressionist inclines one to accept Bonnat's definition that 
"it is a man who knows nothing seeking to make others believe 
he knows something." Somebody says these pictures must 
be "lived with." I think a week or two of such companion- 
ship would send me hopelessly insane to Somerville or else to 
the blind asylum, with my eyes burned out by color. 

Dr. 

From the Boston Post. 

MR. MACKNIGHT'S WATER COLORS 

To the Editor of the Post: 

Sir: — Will you allow me a few words in answer to the letter 
signed "Dr." in this morning's Post, containing an explosion 
of wrath directed against the water colors by Mr. Macknight, 
recently exhibited at Doll & Richards'. There were so many 
harmonious works in the collection which showed real talent 
and power of a high order, if not positive genius, that it seems 
almost a shame in so cultured a city as Boston the artist 
should receive such an outburst of sarcasm. This, however, 
has not been general, for there are many of the best artists, 
amateurs, and connoisseurs in our city who have united in the 
highest praise of Mr. Macknight's work. 



22 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

Let those who still desire to cling to the old-fashioned ideas 
of landscape work do so, by all means, but they will inevitably 
soon find themselves very much behind if not left out entirely 
in the race. There are too many men of broad culture, 
refined tastes, and close observation, who know and appreciate 
the real advances which landscape art has made in the present 
century, to leave the success of the more recent progress in the 
treatment of light and atmosphere much longer in doubt. 

Brownish and blackish pictures may still have their admirers, 
but they have probably had their day. While many of them 
have their own admirable qualities, depending always upon 
the individual powers of the artists, the present advanced 
school of landscape painters have wisely laid out a new course, 
in which the transcript appears to the initiated a thousand- 
fold more like nature than the attempts of former eras. Many 
of the pictures of the present day are full of a pulsating light, 
in which blues, violets, purples, and reds play a most promi- 
nent part. However, this is a question which it is almost 
useless to argue about. The appreciation of good work is 
advancing, though of course not as fast as all who really love 
art could wish. There is still the eye which seems only minute 
finish, although the values may be execrable and the canvas 
little better than a chromo. 

I have never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Macknight, 
but if he could have heard, as I have, the genuine praise of his 
work from the lips of men who know whereof they speak, I am 
sure he would be encouraged and gratified. Encouraged, not 
to pursue the phantom of mannerism, but to advance in the 
truthful portrayal of nature with her grand effects of light and 
shade and the purity of her colors. There were three or four 
pictures in the exhibition which, to at least some minds, seemed 
remarkably strong and fine. To the future, however, we 
must look for the final decision in these matters, but for one I 
believe heartily that the day is not far distant when the con- 
ventional way in which we have been accustomed to see nature 
portrayed will no longer hamper our judgments, when the good 
things of the impressionist school, viz.: light, values, and 
color, will be as readily admired as they are now faithfully 
treasured by those who have learned to love them. 

Desmond FitzGerald. 
Brookline, 8th April, 1889. 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 23 

From the Boston Post. 

NATURE AND ART AGAIN 

My dear Taverner: — Will you permit me to address to you a 
reply to "Dr." in Monday's Post? Probably at the time the 
outraged man was penning his paragraph, I was riding in a 
Blue Hill Avenue car, back to the sunset and face to the east — 
where every object touched by the rays of the sun was illum- 
ined by a glow almost surpassing the Macknight pictures. 
"Even his orange roofs were true," was my mental exclama- 
tion. Some distant trees had exactly the tawny color which 
his trees had, and the sky was just as vividly blue as he has 
painted it in some of his pictures. Towards the horizon there 
was that vibrating vermilion under the blue which the same 
artist is teaching us to see even in our cold climate. The tile 
roofs of southern France were not here to be illumined, but 
every object built of brick and catching this last vivid ray of 
the sun was orange of almost a fiery quality. Now — about 
the purples. Had I been at the seashore I might have seen 
his famous "purple boat"; but, as it was, I did see marvelous 
blue and lavender shadows, which, in another place, might 
easily have become as purple as Antoine's ink or Mr. Mac- 
knight's much-talked-of boat. Now, all this color was not 
wholly in the sunlight. As the eye dropped from the glowing 
house-tops and other high objects and looked upon the cooler 
street views, it discovered most astonishing color. Here was a 
yellow wagon, there a red sign; here a yellow horse-blanket, 
there a man's ruddy face. The commonest object borrowed 
something of beauty and brilliancy from the glories above. 
Of such themes it used to be said, "If they were painted we 
should say 'such color is impossible.' ' Now that they are 
painted, most people say just what "Dr." and his friends do. 
A few — they are a minority but they are in earnest — ■ are glad 
to have had their eyes opened to new delights in nature, and 
they thank Mr. Macknight for daring to tell the truth. 
We're made so that we love 
First when we see them painted, things we have passed 
Perhaps a hundred times, nor cared to see. 

Art was given for that. 
It lures us to help each other so, 
Sending our minds out. 
Boston, April 10. H. M. K. 



24 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

BELLE-ILE 

While this excitement over the water colors was in 
progress in Boston, the artist was preparing for 
another journey. The winter of 1888-9 was passed 
in Moret as usual. An atelier friend, Russell, had 
built a house at Belle- He, on the Brittany coast, 
and had described the attractions of that island. In 
the spring Macknight followed and remained for 
several years amid much discouragement, pursuing 
his studies from nature. So far, he had secured a 
bare subsistence, not more than $600 per year; but 
this income was destined to be materially reduced 
on account of the change of sentiment in Boston 
toward his work. Russell, however, liked the water 
colors and purchased several of them; in fact, in 
these early years, the largest part of our artist's 
encouragement came from his brother workers, and 
this is no uncommon result of good and original art; 
the artists are the first to understand and appreciate 
it. 

In 1889 Macknight settled at Port Hallan, so 
that the Brittany pictures which appeared in the 
following exhibition in Boston were painted from 
that village as a center. 

1890 

The third exhibition of March, 1890, was composed 
of one charcoal drawing, "An Arlesian Girl," now 
owned in Greenfield, Mass., five pastels of Breton 
women, and twenty-four water colors, practically the 
first year's work on the island. In these pictures, 
Macknight was still pushing his color schemes, obli- 
vious of the criticisms of the Philistines. The sub- 
jects were "Fishing," "Boating," or "Village scenes" 
connected with the lives of the sardine fishermen, 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 25 

and they were all strongly colored. Belle-Ile is a 
large island, somewhat rolling, but nearly level, and 
bordered by enormous rocky cliffs, which in places 
are much broken where they jut into the sea. The 
soil is well cultivated ; in fact, like the whole of France, 
it is a great farm, dotted at occasional intervals by 
clusters of houses which look like oases in the desert 
of grain. The fishing ports are extremely pictur- 
esque. At one end of the island, perched on an 
almost inaccessible rock, is Sarah Bernhardt's cot- 
tage, an old abandoned fort, which the divine Sarah 
secured and turned into a summer home. There, 
surrounded by the restless sea and the rugged 
boulders, the great actress is moderately safe from 
intrusion during the period of her "villegiature." 

The following transcripts from the daily papers 
in Boston will give an idea of the opinions of the 
critics in regard to this exhibition. 

From the Boston Evening Transcript, March 24, i8go. 

* * * is the most interesting display yet made in Bos- 
ton by this independent and audacious artist. His pictures 
are more complete, and have more character, balance, and 
maturity than those of a year ago. They are not less agres- 
sive and brilliant in color, however, nor less original in man- 
ner. There is no use in refusing to see the merits of the 
impressionistic movement, of which Mr. Macknight is a part, 
for, after being duly shocked by his excessive and violent 
tones, which startle and amuse more than they gratify at first, 
we cannot fail, if we give the work enough respectful attention, 
to be struck by the success with which he reproduces the 
phenomena of sunlight, the vitality of his landscapes, the pure 
and unadulterated quality of his color, and the utter original- 
ity of his point of view. If he keeps on in this way he will 
make a great name for himself; such is our prediction. There 
is nothing stupid in his pictures, and he has eliminated from 
his palette all the colors which act in opposition to luminosity 



26 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

and promote dullness. His color range is smaller, but richer 
than the usual one, for he knows how to make it go to its full 
length. It is conventional, too, like all art that is art, but 
within its conventions it is true to itself, and so far as it is that, 
it is true to nature. The pastels, which are very striking, 
manifest the artist's easy and well-trained draughtsmanship; 
the portrait of a smiling girl (2) is well poised, full of spirit, 
and piquant; the "Morbihan type" (4) is very clever, though 
the face is disagreeable; and the "Little Girl of Douarnenez" 
(3) is entirely charming and worthy of Manet. "Afternoon" 
(5) represents a sunny, green and blue, crazy-quilt pattern of a 
panoramic view of a valley, too chaotic as to form to be wholly 
acceptable, but almost grand in its suggestions. 'An Olive 
Grove, South France" (6) is as bold in its generalizations of 
form as one of Corot's latest-period pictures of foliage: the 
leaves look like a fog. The charcoal drawing of "An Arle- 
sian Girl" (1) is a very good sketch; pas mall as Marie Bash- 
kirtseff says. Of the twenty-four water colors which form 
the larger part of the collection, we prefer "The Beehives" 
(28), "Gorse in Bloom" (13), and, in spite of its exaggera- 
tions, "A Cabbage Field" (24), in all of which the reproduc- 
tion of the effect of full sunlight is of an Oriental warmth, 
power, and brilliancy. 

Sunday Morning Gazette, April 6, i8qo. 

The sensation of the week has been the exhibition of pastel 
and water-color drawings by Mr. W. Dodge Macknight. It 
seems hardly possible that educated men and women, with 
well-balanced minds, should take these pictures seriously. 
Much has been said and written about the impressionist 
school, and here we have startling proof of what this school is 
capable. In France, where there are so many really fine 
painters, it is almost impossible to create a stir in the art 
world, unless something new and original be attempted. The 
more startling a picture be in color or treatment, the more 
likely the artist is to rise above the heads of his contempora- 
ries. A knowledge of this led, probably, to the rise of the 
school of impressionists. Painters like Mr. Macknight say 
they represent landscapes as they see them. If this be the 
case, they must be color-blind; for nature never produced 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 27 

such rude, glaring effects as are seen in most of the pictures 
under discussion. It is said by Mr. Macknight's admirers 
that he never mixes his colors; this is nothing to his credit. 
Give a child a lot of paints and he too will daub unmixed yel- 
lows, reds, and blues on a canvas. This would hardly be con- 
sidered a reason for praising the artistic knowledge of the 
child. Arsenic green trees and purple barns, glaring blue skies 
and orange straw, are all very vivid, but scarcely true to poor 
Dame Nature. Perhaps the worst specimens of Macknight's 
style were the pictures called "Gorse in Bloom," "Winter 
Sunlight" and "A Cabbage Field." These might have been 
intended to represent anything or nothing. "Winter Sun- 
light" might as well have been called "Summer Sunset," and 
"A Cabbage Field" was just as much like an unwholesome 
marsh. Nature, in her most brilliant moods, never sets the 
teeth on edge; while Mr. Macknight's pictures often do. It 
seems impossible that any artist should be found who would 
praise these eccentric daubs, and yet this has been the case. 
After all, painters are but human and many of them have an 
ambition to get on in the world : when they hear praise of such 
eccentric pictures and realize that a sensation has been made, 
they think perhaps it is better policy to say a few pleasant 
words of what they know to be bad nature, than to antagonize 
future patrons by telling the bald truth. Such an exhibi- 
tion as this, is capable of doing great harm to Art; for the 
younger men who are striving for a place may be tempted to 
imitate the very faults that cause these pictures to be talked 
about. Even if there be great technical skill underneath 
crude masses of color, it is sure to be wasted; while the work 
of those impressionists who neither know how to draw nor to 
paint, had better be left to the imagination. 

Zif. 



1891 
The fourth Boston exhibition was held at 2 Park 
Street in March, 1891. Two pastels and twenty- 
eight water colors were shown. The former were 
figure, pieces and of the latter, four were "Sardine 
Boats," five were "Spring," six "Summer," eight 



28 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

"Autumn," and five "Winter" landscapes. In 1890 r 
when these pictures were for the most part painted, 
Macknight was living in Port Salio, Belle-Ile. In 
December he went to London, and in John S. Sar- 
gent's studio held an exhibition of the same pictures 
that were shown in Boston the following spring. 
This distinguished painter has been and still is an 
admirer of Macknight's work, and had generously 
offered his studio, although he himself, unfortunately, 
was leaving for Egypt. Sargent cleared his studio 
before leaving and notified his friends to go and see 
the pictures. Macknight remained in London for 
three weeks and then returned to Belle-Ile. 

The following extracts from some of the Boston 
papers will show how the pictures were received by 
the critics; but there was another side which could 
be only understood by noting the remarks. of many 
of the casual visitors to the gallery; to many of them 
the water colors were inexplicable. It was at 
this exhibition that some of the "Maize" pictures 
appeared. These represented the hanging of great 
masses of yellow grain upon the roofs of the cot- 
tages, where they could ripen in the sun. It was in 
connection with these beautiful water colors that the 
artist was informed by letter that, "if he kept on 
painting such preposterous pictures, he never would 
get anywhere." 

From the Boston Post, Feb. 24, i8gi. 

It is worthy of note that the most saleable pictures in the 
market this season are of the impressionist type. The pic- 
tures of Claude Monet sell almost as fast as they can be 
obtained. Doll & Richards will soon show a collection of the 
unique water colors of W. Dodge Macknight, who has lately 
exhibited in London, in Sargent's studio. 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 29 

From the Boston Evening Transcript, i8qi. 

NEITHER ART NOR NATURE 

To the Editor of the Transcript: — The art correspondent of 
the Herald, in the Sunday issue of March 8th, calls Mr. Mac- 
knight an "impressionist of the impressionists." 

If the use of pure prismatic colors in the rendering of 
nature's effects is impressionism, then Mr. Macknight, to use 
a slang phrase, "doesn't get there." His manner of using 
complementary colors side by side is brutal in the extreme; 
and not at all like nature's harmony of color. That there is in 
the shadow of any color something of its complementary, any 
careful student of nature will admit, but the eye is so con- 
structed as to take the mass of color as a whole; and the effect 
on the brain is a pleasing harmony. Mr. Macknight dissects 
nature and shows the unlucky beholder nothing but the bare 
quivering blood-vessels and tissues. An unpleasant sight. It 
is turning nature wrong side out, and exhibiting her to the 
public and the gaze of the hundreds of art students who are 
expected to fall down and worship. This work in the exhibi- 
tion at Messrs. Doll & Richards' gallery is a libel on art and 
nature both. 

The critic says, "A dim, diffused light is what is needed to 
see them by at their best," and in this light "the beauty of the 
effect will be unspeakably heightened." 

The writer happened in at the exhibition when just this 
happy light diffused the "garishness" to some extent, but he 
wished for a pair of blue-glass goggles to subdue the dreadful 
orange, lemon-yellow, and emerald-green grass. These colors, 
with purple so strong that it would blind the eyes of an eagle, 
are supposed to produce the effect of sunlight. 

If violent colors like these produce the lovely light of the 
sun, as seen on harvest fields of grain, then why not light some 
of our dark streets with emerald-green, orange, and purple 
lights instead of the white electric light? 

C. H. Davis or C. E. L. Green show more sunlight in one 
square inch of canvas than Macknight can in an acre of his 
glaring colors. Mr. Macknight is not honest in his interpre- 
tations of nature. He is not doing justice to himself or to the 
impressionists. A healthy imagination combined with an 
honest and earnest study of nature's effects could not produce 
results like these. 
335 Columbus Avenue, Boston. Jos. R. Brown. 



30 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

The following letter was written by the distin- 
guished water color painter, Ross Turner: 

From the Boston Evening Transcript, i8qi. 
A "GRIM NECESSITY" 

.To the Editor of the Transcript: — The critic of Mr. Mac- 
knight's pictures in the Saturday Transcript seemed to use 
as much color in his language as he attributed to the painter 
in his work. Would it not be wiser for that gentleman to 
have said that Mr. Macknight's studies and pictures, to him, 
did not possess certain color harmonies with which he was 
familiar? Nature is an unknown quantity — has infinite 
phases and moods. Could anyone assume to understand all 
of them? 

The trouble is that too many people approach nature in a 
very cut-and-tried sort of a way, who see it, if they really see 
it at all, from a very commonplace point of view. To some, 
nature is a sort of reflex of a particular poet or painter; any 
phenomenon or unusual effect is often, without reason, com- 
pared to the nature of the individual imagination, rather than 
to the nature as known and seen by the artist. 

Fortunately for the artist, he does not, as a rule, go to that 
class either for inspiration or advise. Mr. Macknight cer- 
tainly does not — ! If one sees in his work what is unusual 
and strange, it is none the less an impression of something he 
sees in nature. As to the sincerity of the artist, no one may 
question that. Mr. Macknight is evidently very much in 
earnest in what he is trying to do; it is the earnestness that 
results from a grim necessity. It is not right to say that a 
man is dishonest in his work until we are quite certain he is so; 
that he is judged and convicted by recognized authority. Let 
our judgment be deferred until we know more of art and nature 
than we now do. 

Ross Turner. 
Harcourt Studios. 

From the Boston Evening Transcript, i8qi. 

NIGHTMARE LANDSCAPE 
To the Editor of the Transcript: — A recent criticism in your 
paper alluded to the pictures by Mr. Macknight, I believe, 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 31 

as being "neither nature nor art." Mr. Ross Turner, in your 
last night's issue, says in defense of Mr. Macknight that "if 
one sees in his work what is unusual and strange, it is none the 
less an impression of something he sees in nature." This is 
equivalent to saying that Mr. Macknight is above criticism, 
that he is justified in claiming immunity from the standard 
whereby all other artists are judged, namely, the standard 
of truth and beauty. If Mr. Macknight has some awful 
idiosyncrasy of vision which neither recognizes perspective, 
drawing, values, or color, it isn't his fault, but it is his misfor- 
tune. Mr. Ross Turner seems to recognize this in saying 
that these pictures are painted under a "grim necessity." We 
suppose this must refer to the awful necessity which the art- 
ist feels to get rid, at any price, of these chromatic nightmares 
when he feels them surging up in his tumultuous soul. He 
must feel much freer and happier when he gets them safely 
on paper. The "grim" part of it will be experienced by the 
purchasers when their "better selves" assert themselves and 
the still small voice gets a chance to be heard, which will be 
when this silly, ephemeral little epoch of impressionism, or 
affectation in art, has died its natural death. 

R. J. 

Concord, Mass., March 16. 

And per contra, this: 

Macknight's exhibition of impressionistic water colors at 
Doll & Richards' may be numbered among the very few col- 
lections that have sold well. The artist has fought a brave 
fight in his attack upon "banality," and is likely to come out 
conqueror, greatly to the surprise of the lovers of the old-time 
"molasses" school. We shall feel the good of the new move- 
ment as time goes on. Our best artists are learning how to 
use it to their real advantage. 

1892 

In February, 1892, the fifth Boston exhibition was 
opened. On the outside of the catalogue appeared 
this quotation from Walt Whitman: 

"Only the kernel of every object nourishes. 



32 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

"Where is he that will tear off the husks for you 
and me? 

"Where is he that undoes strategems and envelopes 
for you and me?" 

Of the thirty subjects, eleven were "By the Sea," 
three of them were "Boat" motives, and the rest 
rocks, cliffs, and caves; eight were "Garden and 
Flower" motives, and eleven "Landscape and Vil- 
lage" motives. 

The pictures were painted from Cosquet, in Belle- 
Ile, where the artist resided in 1891 ; one of the gar- 
den and flower series was a pastel "Crysanthemums." 
This exhibition was destined to be the last held 
at Doll & Richards' until 1897, when they were 
resumed. There were a few exhibitions in the 
interim; one of them in New Orleans in 1893, another 
at the St. Botolph Club, Boston, in 1894, and a third 
at the studio of an artist friend in Boston. These 
will be noticed in due order. 

Here is what the papers have to say: 

From the Boston Evening Transcript, i8q2. 

* * * The works are of the most unmitigated order of 
impressionism, the fine flower of the Monet fad. Such a 
noisy and rollicking husking-bee as this was never heard of; 
the barn floor is fairly encumbered with stratagems and envel- 
opes. Mr. Macknight does not flatter himself in the least. 
The poetical elegance and truth of his device are equaled by 
the appropriateness of its application to himself and his mis- 
sion. Poor old Monet is nowhere, considered as a husker, 
alongside of Mr. Macknight. 

* * * The use of the primary colors is carried to its 
farthest posibility of brilliancy, with results which are more 
stunning than modest. As decoration these pictures — or 
many of them — fulfill their purpose splendidly, not to say 
splendiferously ; they would make a good frieze for a dark 
corridor; and the lithographers who make circus bills must 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 33 

hide their diminished heads when they see what can be 
done by a man who gets right at the kernel of an object, 
and nourishes himself on unadulterated blue, green, yellow, 
and red. 

Mr. Macknight's work includes some things this year which 
are rather more actual and more closely studied than any that 
he has previously put forth. He suggests a full blaze of sunlight 
very strongly in many of his landscapes, as for example "Car- 
dinal Clover" (17), "Garden with Giroflees" (13), and "Going 
to Mass" (29). He does not compose, nor draw, nor execute 
after the manner of men, so well as he might ; but his color has 
gained in force and resonance, and his work is piquant and 
amusing from its unbounded audacity and its grotesque man- 
nerisms. As a lurid page in the history of that exceedingly 
curious and diverting phase of modern art which we call 
impressionism, this exhibition is not without a certain degree 
of interest. 

"The Listener" in the Transcript. 

Mr. Dodge Macknight's pictures seem to change from 
year to year, which is not strange, since this is a time of transi- 
tion in art, and men are finding their level. His exhibition 
last year seemed more startling, more extreme, than that of 
the previous year. It seemed to the Listener that he was then 
borne along by some influence which mastered him, and which, 
to say the least, did not make pictures beautiful. But this 
year it is the painter who masters his colors, and not the colors 
who master the painter. Last year the Listener ventured 
the opinion that no one could be highly sensitive to color, and 
paint exactly as Mr. Macknight did. This year no one 
could accuse Mr. Macknight of lack of sensibility to color. 
Nothing could exceed the delicacy of his nuances in sea and 
sky tints. People who come to scoff, remain to pray, especially 
in looking at such pictures as the first "Boat Motive," the 
two "In My Garden," the "Cardinal Clover," "Ripe Grain," 
"Between the Roofs," and "A Windmill with Dead Fern." 
These pictures are brilliantly beautiful. Some people who are 
quite opposed to the artistic idea which they represent are 
compelled to admit this; these people are, in fact, gradually 
working up to the pictures. 



34 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

Salem Gazette, Tuesday, March i, i8q2. 

* * * There are people who do not like these pictures? 
Certainly. There are people who dislike dry champagne — 
not to mention those who are opposed to all wine on prin- 
ciple — ■ and there is plenty of sweet champagne in the market. 
Then there is the popular demand that a picture shall tell a 
story. There is not the slightest objection to that — Mr. 
Gaugengigl's paintings always tell a story, and an interesting 
one, and are none the worse pictures for it. But isn't it rather 
severe to make this the criterion of excellence? Turn it 
round a bit: Mr. William Black writes excellent passages 
descriptive of Scotch scenery; supposing he were to omit the 
story and give his readers nothing but description? 

Mr. Macknight, as his quotation hints, finds the interpre- 
tation of nature sufficient for him, without bringing in a lit- 
erary interest to help him out. Poetry in the picture rather 
than in the catalogue, seems to be his idea. The paintings 
are in three general groups: "By the Sea," "Garden and 
Flower Motives," "Landscape and Village Motives." Here is 
one, for instance, that shows the yellow beach of a little cove, 
the water shoaling to a greenish blue, while the middle dis- 
tance shows a blue that deepens to purple at the horizon. 
How far away is the horizon? If your eyes are unequal to 
focusing properly such an amount of color, you have only to 
take the minifying-glass. At once that horizon flies into the 
distance in a fashion that very nearly makes you gasp for 
breath, and the splotches and splashes of color — well, they 

Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 
Then a light, then — 

"Nobody ever saw such colors in nature, I know! Who is 
Dodge Macknight, anyway?" This, from some one just 
behind you. Don't look daggers at her — beg pardon, him — 
just hand over the glass and retire, it wasn't so long ago that 
you came out of Egypt! 

* * * What is the secret of the charm of these pic- 
tures, which are so startling and so strange at first sight? 
Absolute directness of aim, which springs from singleness of 
purpose — - that may explain it, in part. What the artist 
sees then and there, that he paints. One cannot have every- 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 35 

thing. If you choose to paint the light and brilliancy of an 
effect that is momentarily shifting into kaleidoscopic combina- 
tions, you cannot stop to arrange your composition nor to 
hunt up picturesque and popular subjects. But is not such 
an effect as "Going to Mass" (29, not 30) shows, worth a 
larger sacrifice than the artist demands? Granted that the 
blue of the sky seems rather deep, where else can a picture be 
found so saturated with sunlight? And the other "Going to 
Mass" — the artist is so indifferent to titles that in several 
cases they are duplicated — the sky covers over one-half of 
the paper and is filled with masses of disorganized clouds. 
The greens and yellows are as brilliant as usual, and the 
figures strolling along the lighter yellow road are subordinate 
to the simple landscape; but it is only after a careful survey 
that the little house and the church-steeple start into sight 
upon the horizon and carry the eye into additional miles of 
perspective. Now it is open to anyone to declare that the 
details of a picture should be obvious at a glance. The 
answer, however, must be that if this house and this steeple 
asserted themselves at once, there would be an instant diminu- 
tion of that wonderful perspective; and if we go to nature 
and common experience for our answer, — Who ever saw the 
distant details of a landscape without taking a little trouble? 
Not without effort comes the sense of the beautiful to the soul 
of man. 

The artist's indifference to variety of subjects, as compared 
with variety of effects, is shown very strongly in Nos. 1, 2, and 
3, all of which are bracketed as "Boat Motives," the latter one 
having "Storm Outside" added to its general title. In two of 
these, at least, the composition is very nearly identical, and 
the "Storm Outside" is indicated by the color and turbulency 
of the waves in the cove and the broken lines of surf upon the 
rocks; while a long narrow blur of purple against a whitish 
sky suggests the spume-drift without. 

In "Late Afternoon at the Port," there is perhaps the only 
absolutely calm water in the exhibition, and the reflection of 
the bank, a glowing yellow in the late light, is something to 
be remembered. The composition in this picture is very 
nearly identical with that of number three. 

Indeed, it is hopeless to suppose that any idea of this 
variety of effect can be conveyed to one who has not seen 



36 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

these paintings. Blue, green, yellow, orange, purple — these 
might be adequate for the description of a dress or a bit of 
upholstery, but what possible idea can they give of these 
brilliant symphonies in light and color? Here is "A Head- 
land — Stormy Weather." The water is a beryl-green, 
while the foam is almost soft in its effect, and seems to creep 
rather than dash upon the rocks that rise gradually into a 
cliff of brownish gold. It ought to be needless to add that 
this brilliancy is not — cannot — be obtained by omitting 
all shadows, neither is it obtained by forcing the shadows into 
unnatural darkness in order to obtain striking contrasts. 
"Cliffs" (No. 7, not 10) show shadows where points of rock 
project, but they are soft purple shadows, not mere inky 
blots. If anyone objects to such shadows as "unnatural," 
he is respectfully invited to walk across Boston Common, 
from Park Square to West Street, any sunny morning in win- 
ter, and observe the shadows on the high buildings on Beacon 
Hill. Just what color he may see we cannot say, but if he sees 
any black there, he would do well to test himself for color- 
blindness forthwith. 

Gorgeous as are some of the garden and flower motives, it 
is hard to leave "By the Sea." The two pictures of a "Garden 
with Giroflees" are different alike in composition and effect. 
Number thirteen shows a greenish-yellow sky suffused with 
light, while the stuccoed end of a building stands out against 
it, light purple in tint, and the giroflees give a vivid red to the 
foreground. 

In number fourteen, the grass in the foreground is rather 
bluer than usual, the rail fence is purple, and once again the 
most noticeable thing is the way in which a little half-inch 
streak.at the horizon suggests miles of distance when you look 
at it through the minifying-glass. 

"Cardinal Clover" has a sky whose aerial perspective is some- 
thing to study. There is blue sky overhead, but lower down 
the cumulous clouds carry the eye farther and farther into 
space, while the clouds near the horizon — mere curlicues of 
white in themselves — suggest rather than complete the length- 
ened perspective. The grass in the middle distance is a good 
illustration of Mr. Macknight's purity as well as brilliancy 
of color; indeed, it would be impossible, probably, to find one 
half-inch of muddiness in any of these pictures. This artist 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 37 

is emphatically a painter, and he depends upon the purity, 
graduation, and juxtaposition of colors, rather than on any 
formal linear drawing, for his distances. 

Nor is the color always deep — the 'Apple Tree in Bloom" 
is a bouquet of light pink shading into purple at its edge, and 
in the "Garden with Pear Tree" the purple roofs and almost 
brick-red ground are relieved by a light sky and a tree of the 
lightest tints of green. 

One thing, at least, is reasonably certain — no picture 
painted in the usual color-scale could bear comparison with 
these paintings. Just for the experiment, a picture by a popu- 
lar artist — it wouldn't be fair to give his name — was placed 
for a moment or two against one of the gallery walls. It was 
a winter scene, but not only what little color there was in it 
seemed to die out into ashes, but the perspective of the Mac- 
knight paintings were — all slang apart — pretty much "out 
of sight" in comparison. 

Whether other artists will ever carry this brilliancy of color 
into their paintings may be doubted ; but surely its effect 
must be that of brightening the accepted scale of color. "I 
wish I had one of these pictures before me all the time," said 
one generous artist, "it would keep me up to my work! " 

And if, here and there, there is a painting like "A Windmill 
with Dead Fern," that will not "come right" for our Philis- 
tine eyes, what of it? Does anyone suppose that the true 
artist is ever satiated with his measure of success? 

"That low man seeks a little thing to do, 
Sees it and does it; 
This high man, with a great thing to pursue, 
Dies ere he knows it." 

Let us hope that that day is far distant for Mr. Macknight. 
Long life to him, and success to him, and may he realize for 
all of us our Castles in Spain! 

Arthur Chamberlain. 

Transcript, March 12, i8q2. 

AN IMPRESSIONIST INTERPRETED 

It is a pity to write of an exhibition in the past tense, and 
yet a tardy word may be better than none. Mr. Macknight's 



38 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

pictures, just shown at Doll & Richards', are the work of a 
man thoroughly in earnest, and many of them proclaim their 
painter a master. We all remember how the first sight of a 
collection of the works of Monet impressed us. To unac- 
customed eyes his canvases seemed full of awkward lines, the 
masses often lacking in true value. Some of his skies "came 
forward" to our untutored vision. To give the eyes needed 
freshness, we sat down for a moment to read the catalogue, 
possibly to chat with a friend on outside topics. In an absent- 
minded way we looked at one of the pictures. What a trans- 
formation! It leaped at once into reality. With awakened 
vision we glanced from one to another, and their full meaning 
was interpreted. 

So with the work of Dodge Macknight. We enter the gal- 
lery on a cloudy morning, our eyes full of the gray of the Com- 
mon, or the subdued tints of the Park Street houses. We 
have not even carried the colors from the florists' windows on 
Tremont Street. What a yellow field and what a blue sky! 
But it's rollicking, and — it's true! What a blaze of the car- 
dinal clover of France! But it's a casket of rich-hued gems. 
What an immense wall of rock there! But it's a cliff, and 
what tremendous character it has! See that picture of a 
"Storm Outside," all the boats huddled upon a beach at the 
foot of a cliff, and the water angry and sullen with a fierce 
undercurrent that forebodes ill. Other boat "motives," how 
surpassingly clever they are! So this artist "doesn't draw!" 
Well, well! Here's a donkey-cart and figures in the road, not 
standing stock-still, but flying along before the wind — even 
the donkey. If these figures had been properly "drawn" 
they would have stood as if posing. There's a windmill, with 
a long stretch of blasted ferns in the fore and middle grounds. 
It's a stormy sky, and that windmill is turning to the great 
detriment of its — "drawing." 

There are some exquisite skies; we never saw better on 
anybody's canvas or paper; some garden effects! Ah! but 
they are novel, with all the piquancy and spirit of French 
gardens. There is one stretch of sea country, like our own 
Narragansett shore, a narrow blue ribbon of ocean very far 
away, a haystack just this side — not to be excelled by any 
painter at any time, and then we come nearer to fenced-in 
enclosures where the riotous wild bloom of France struggles 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 39 

to get through the bars, and the bars themselves are swathed 
with that wondrous violet which Macknight, more than any- 
one, has insisted upon showing us in nature. It is not always 
there. Sometimes it holds high festival, and again you may 
seek and not find. 

To fully comprehend this artist's pictures, one must know 
something of Northern France. In Beacon street we deco- 
rate our house-fronts with wistaria; Morbihan sees fit to hang 
up its golden maize. We are not given to purple roofs and 
arsenic-green shutters, but a white house thus decorated is 
quite possible within thirty miles of Boston, in the direction 
of Cape Ann. 

In the French studios there is one word not often heard in 
this country, a word almost untranslatable, banal. What- 
ever is ordinary, mediocre, common-place, comes under this 
word. Macknight says, "Come what may, I will not paint 
the banal!" And so his compositions are - — what they are. 

Oh! that diminishing-glass in the gallery! Through it these 
wildly-colored pictures become perfect transcripts of nature! 
Is not that miraculous? 



Helen M. Knowlton. 



Harcourt Studios, March 10. 



Transcript, March 12, 18Q2. 

MACKNIGHT — JUSTICE 

To the Editor of the Transcript: — For the fourth time we have 
had an exhibition of the work of Mr. Dodge Macknight, and 
for the fourth time the press as a body, through its critics, has 
seen fit to run down and decry his work. 

To those who think seriously over matters relating to art, 
it is a subject of keen regret that there is not found in art 
criticism the same evidence of knowledge and ability that we 
look for and expect in the criticism of literature and music. 
We do not expect our musical critics to reflect the impressions 
of the masses and their views, but the balanced judgment of 
the minority, who understand music and know of that they 
speak. We have a right to expect the same in our art critics. 
Our papers should certainly feel that the field of art criticism 
is an important one, and, for their own reputation, should be 
ably filled. 



40 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

One of our morning papers evidently values so little its 
own dicta as to contradict one day, its judgment of a few- 
days previous; first give commendation, and then hold up to 
ridicule the same man and the same work. This might be 
admissible in Life or Puck, but in such a connection is neither 
dignified on the part of the paper, nor just to the artist. 

The case in question refers to a man who, from poor begin- 
nings and unfavorable surroundings, is working out for him- 
self a problem — is reaching for a new expression of truth, 
and is evidently earnest and faithful in his endeavor. That 
he should have already attained his object we should neither 
expect nor wish. Of whom can it be said that he has ful- 
filled his ideal? 

We do not therefore condemn an effort full of promise and 
already crowned with much success. Macknight has done 
in water color what no one has before thought possible, he has 
put atmosphere on his paper — he has understood and ren- 
dered with the simple medium of water color the values 
which to a painter are all-important — he has caught the 
fleeting sunshine, the glow of heat, the shimmer of falling 
rain, and for this success he should have due consideration. 
At the hands of his brother artists he has received the recogni- 
tion which undoubtedly he will in time receive from the pub- 
lic, and then, and not till then, may we expect to hear him 
spoken well of by the critics. There is not an artist of stand- 
ing in Boston but sees in Macknight the true stamp of ability, 
and however differently he may himself see Nature and ren- 
der what he sees, appreciates and acknowledges this power. 

It is certainly no mean indorsement which one of our fore- 
most painters, John S. Sargent, gave to Macknight last 
year* in offering him his London studio for an exhibition. 
Such men do not grant favors gratuitously and without 
thought. 

It is mortifying to have the opinion of our best judges 
reversed by our press ; it is doubly hard for the faithful stu- 
dent to feel that his work is neither appreciated nor under- 
stood, that the bad points are magnified and the good 
entirely ignored. In justice to Macknight, in justice to Art, 
let us have criticisms worthy of the man. 

R. Clipston Sturgis. 

* Two years since. 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 41 

March iq, i8q2. 

VOL-AU-VENT 

[For the Saturday Evening Gazette.] 



CVX 



Teach me, oh Dodge Macknight, 
To know and worship thee; 

To feel that black is white; 
To see what I don't see. 

Teach me, oh Dodge Macknight, 
To know which end is which ; 

To view thy horrors right, 

To make thy colors hitch. 

Fain would I, Dodge Macknight, 
Yearn with my fellow-men 

O'er thee with all my might, 
If I knew how and when. 

Then teach me, Dodge Macknight, 
To know and worship thee; 

To feel that black is white; 
To see what I don't see. 



Transcript, i8q2. 

ART CRITICISM IN THE PRESS 

To the Editor of the Transcript: — A communication from Mr. 
R. Clingstone Splurges, in last Saturday's 7 ranscript, severely 
rebukes the art critics of Boston who have failed to appre- 
ciate the beauties of Mr. W. Knox Delight's water colors. 
The authoritative tone of Mr. Splurges's remarks is well cal- 
culated to convince all those who know nothing whatever 
about the question that he is a modern Daniel come to judg- 
ment. He and his friends, "those who think seriously over 
matters relating to art," regret keenly the want of knowledge 
and ability in the art criticism of the day. We all know how 



42 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

idiotic the critics seem when they do not agree with us; 
and it happens that with respect to Mr. W. Knox Delight's 
water colors "the opinion of the best judges" (including Mr. 
Splurges himself) has been "reversed by our press." This is 
a very sad state of affairs, and it is not to be wondered at that 
Mr. Splurges, in a fine burst of indignation, demands some 
"criticism worthy of the name." Incidentally he himself 
furnishes a brilliant sample of the article. He says that Mr. 
Delight "has done in water color what no one has before 
thought possible; he has put atmosphere on his paper." If 
Mr. Splurges had not told us this, we ignorant art critics might 
have gone on thinking that this miracle had not only been 
thought possible by others, but had actually been done before 
(by such water-color painters, for instance, as J. M. W. Turner, 
David Cox, J. McNeil Whistler, Mariano Fortuny, John 
LaFarge, and Winslow Homer, to mention a few of the many). 
So you see, Mr. Editor, how necessary it is, every little while, 
for us to have someone who "knows it all" come along and 
teach us our business. You may be sure that we are humi- 
liated by having our deficiencies thus exposed in a public 
manner, and that we are deeply grateful to Mr. R. Clingstone 
Splurges for his kindness in telling us how to write art criti- 
cism worthy of the name. I am, most respectfully, your 
obedient servant, 

One of the Critics. 

To the Editor of the Transcript: — Mr. Sturgis, in his letter 
published in last Saturday's Transcript, condemns the news- 
paper art critics for their comments on Mr. Macknight's 
pictures. He properly states that competent critics would 
reflect the balanced judgment of those who understand art 
and know of what they speak. He goes too far, however, 
when he says that these critics should not reflect the impres- 
sions of the masses and their views, because sometimes the 
masses may, after all, be right, and may agree with the bal- 
anced judgment of those who know of what they speak, while 
the opposing minority may be wrong. 

When a man starts out, as Mr. Macknight has done, in a 
new direction in art — one that is opposed to the methods and 
traditions of generations — he must expect some adverse 
criticism. When he publicly exhibits his productions he 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 43 

invites it. He may be sure that he will get it, too, and that 
he and his friends must be prepared to take it without win- 
cing. Mr. Macknight's departure is one of the kind that is 
justified only by absolute success, and few, I think, will con- 
tend that he has achieved that so far. There is certainly 
some merit in several of these pictures, and it is not unlikely 
that Mr. Sargent saw more than many of us do; but that 
does not by any means place them beyond the pale of adverse 
criticism, and for every artist of standing that will praise them 
as a whole, it will not be difficult to find another who will con- 
demn them. 

On the other hand, it is possible that Mr. Macknight has 
really discovered the right road, and that he is the favored one 
who is to initiate the American School of Art that our West- 
ern friends sometimes speak of; but at present his work is 
tentative only, like the free-hand sketch of an architect or 
the notes of a clergyman, and his object in exhibiting it 
from time to time is probably more to feel the pulse of the 
public than to elicit admiration. By all means let us give the 
artist time and see what the development of this new method 
may be; but meanwhile, critics are quite justified in speaking 
of the exhibited work as they find it, irrespective of that to 
which in the distant future it may lead. 

W. F. CORNE. 
Cambridge, March 17, 1892. 

Commonwealth, i8q2 

IMPRESSIONISM— A PROTEST 

To the Editor of the Commonwealth: — The interest that has 
been excited by impressionism in art warrants the quoting of 
a few passages from a letter received by me from one of the 
most faithful representatives of that school — if, indeed, he 
is not founding a school of his own. I do not give his name, 
as he did not write for publication. Perhaps I do not need 
to give it. 

"I intended," he says in his letter, "to write to you ere this, 
but have been rather discouraged by the financial result of my 
exhibition, which has upset all my plans ... I am get- 
ting very tired of the criminal stupidity of the human race. 
It is always the same story. Men in all walks of art who have 



44 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

the misfortune to be more or less personal and will not whittle 
off the corners of their 'eccentricity' to suit the masses have a 
hard time of it. I think I can explain to you why I have pro- 
duced about thirty pictures a year. Some of the motives 
were painted four or five times; the best one was preserved, 
the rest consigned to the flames — they weren't even kept to? 
be sold after death! And yet I am accused of insincerity. 
Oh, I am pretty well disgusted!" 

Here is an American artist, without financial backing, work- 
ing as bravely and sincerely for art as any Palissy the Potter 
ever worked; yes, working in that spirit of devotion that 
characterized the founders of the great Italian schools. 

You may agree or disagree with his technique, but many 
intelligent critics agree that it is a stimulus and a refresh- 
ment — the ozone in the artistic atmosphere. 

A. C. 



SPAIN 

Immediately after Christmas, 1891, Macknight 
turned from the charms of Belle-Ile to those of sunny 
Spain. His friend Boch, ever devoted, had passed 
several weeks with him and soon afterwards followed 
him to that country. The first stop was made at 
Barcelona, where two atelier friends lived, and a 
month was spent in that locality painting in the envi- 
rons, which were hardly tropical enough for the 
artist, so he moved on to Valencia, Alicante, Murcia, 
and finally to Orihuela, where a congenial resting 
place was found. This old town is situated on a 
good-sized river crossed by a bridge over which the 
picturesque inhabitants pass whenever the pulsations 
of life are awakened. It boasts a cathedral and a 
bishop's palace, which add to its setting; but best of 
all for a painter, it is a town of blue skies, orange 
groves, and stage-coaches, and is bathed in soft 
yellow sunlight and sits at the feet of pink and purple 
hills. In this romantic spot, Macknight was destined 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 45 

to spend several happy years — although at the same 
time they were in many ways the most trying that he 
was called upon to endure in his battles with the 
world. 

While in Belle-Ile he had made the acquaintance of 
Miss Queyrel from Valserres in the French Alps, 
who was visiting some friends. The acquaintance 
ripened into an engagement and the marriage was 
solemnized in Orihuela. Miss Queyrel and her 
father came on, and Boch followed and was one of 
the witnesses of the happy event. Macknight's be- 
trothed was a strict Catholic and the ceremony was 
performed in accordance with the sacred rites of 
that faith, awakening no little excitement in that 
sleepy town. Like the great majority of similar 
unions, founded on solid principles, everything 
turned out well, although for many years it was 
accompanied by much self-denial and hard work. 

At the time of his marriage, the artist had bright 
hopes for the future; his work had excited wide 
interest but so far had returned but small dividends. 
The young couple secured a small house in the sub- 
urbs and proceeded to give it those attractions by 
little touches here and there which indicate the tastes 
of the occupants, and many of the furnishings were 
made with their own hands. The returns from the 
Belle-Ile pictures which had been sent to Boston, 
were not as large as expected and affairs became 
worse instead of better, so that for the next five or 
six years the Macknights were driven frequently 
to bitter discouragement, but the fight was main- 
tained with loyal courage. 

Fortunately, the rent of the little cottage was but 
$1.50 per month. Brother artists who visited their 
establishment had christened it "Robinson Crusoe." 



46 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

There were some other discouragements for our 
artist at this time besides those of diminishing 
income. He had difficulty in rendering sunlight as 
he desired and his work at the end of 1892 was 
mostly destroyed. 

Macknight made up his mind that something had 
to be done. The conviction was finally evolved that 
to render the sunlight, it was necessary to treat it as 
simply as possible; all features should be thrown 
overboard, except those most vital in the landscape, 
and pure color only should be used; in addition, the 
picture must be painted as rapidly as possible, 
and to accomplish this result, the artist imposed a 
time limit almost arbitrarily upon his work. In 
painting street scenes, he practised for a long time 
the drawing of passing figures, and hundreds of small 
sketches were made, so that finally, after all the diffi- 
culties had been to a degree mastered, he could 
glance at a moving figure, turn away and record the 
vital points. Studies of many interiors were made at 
this time and of fruit trees. 

The exhibition which was held in the St. Botolph 
Club in January, 1894, showed the result of all this 
application and it made a sensation. 

1893 

In February, 1893, an exhibition of thirty-five mis- 
cellaneous pictures by Macknight was held in New 
Orleans, Louisiana, at the Fiske Library Gallery, 
and in November another at Hampton College; but 
neither of these brought financial results to the 
artist. The criticisms in the papers were somewhat 
amusing, as for instance, " 'A Breton Village' has 
nothing very objectionable about it; in fact, it is a 
very pleasing start for a picture, but there it ends." 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 47 

Again: "In selecting his subjects, he does not seem 
to care at all whether his pictures will be pleasing or 
not, as in 'Winter Sunlight' where half the picture 
may be profitably cut out, or in 'Between Haystacks' 
where part of a stack comes into the picture from the 
upper left-hand corner." Again: "No. 27, 'Green 
Grain,' is very little more than three horizontal 
streaks of paint: pink, green, and bluish gray." 
And again: "In many cases he has displayed a 
great deal of feeling, especially in the distances and 
skies, but the middle grounds are, as a rule, too vigor- 
ous." But Mr. Macknight had at least one convert 
in New Orleans, who took up the cudgels in his 
behalf and answered his critics. 

Folio * i8gj. 

. An artist who is by no means an impressionist, 
and who is most in sympathy with the great painters of the 
15th century and with the artists of Barbizon — of the early 
years of our own age, gives a chapter from his recent experi- 
ence which is worth recording. 

"I returned to Boston early in October, regretting deeply 
that I was obliged to shut myself up within four walls just as 
our stormy autumn had blossomed into a season of rare and 
brilliant beauty, far beyond that of summer. As I unpacked 
my cases and caught occasional glimpses of last year's studio 
work, to say nothing of my ventures during the summer, my 
heart fell. I had nothing that, for an instant, recalled the 
splendor of nature as it had begun to burst upon me in this 
almost unparalleled month of October, 1893, and on which I 
had been compelled to turn my back and come up to town for 
possible city engagements. It was of no use to envy my land- 
scape-painting brothers of the brush ; I must make the best of 
it. In sheer desperation I bethought myself of a vivid, bril- 
liant, glowing picture which I chanced to own, and which I 
can rarely exhibit even to my friends, so grievously does it 
shock their preconceived notions of what a picture ought to be. 

* P. 455. 



48 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

I placed it on an easel, and refreshed my eyes with it a dozen 
times a day. It represented a spring shower in Northern 
France. Did you ever notice how certain showers freshen the 
hues of nature, as varnish brings out the colors of a painting 
that have sunken in and vanished from sight? That is the 
effect given by this genuine 'impression' of nature. The tiled 
roofs of the peasant houses are as blue-purple as paint can 
make them. Dashes of yellow and red accentuate that purple, 
used as they are in its midst. The tender green of spring 
palpitates with all the colors that help to make it brilliant, to 
key it up to an effect far beyond the power of any single pig- 
ment to produce. It is wet, humid, almost a blinding rain as 
it veils the thatched roofs, the hay-ricks, and the roadsides. 
Only the tiled roofs stand out in that royal purple, which, 
by the way, you can often see in Brookline, Dorchester, and 
Roxbury. Probably you would not understand the picture; 
but it saved me from homesickness and the blues. I tell you 
that it gave me fresh interest in what some of our young men 
are trying to do, and it makes me feel pretty sure that we have 
all got to paint lighter, fresher, gayer, both indoors and out." 

The picture in question was by Dodge Macknight, a young 
Providence man who went to Europe to study art, obtained 
what was needed in the way of elementary instruction; and 
feeling, every year, the impulse of color growing stronger and 
stronger, went to Southern France and to Algiers, and painted 
pictures so vivid that when they were exhibited at Doll & 
Richards' gallery they stopped the breath of the incoming 
visitors, who, in several cases, turned quickly away saying to 
chance acquaintances whom they might meet: "Don't go in! 
You won't like them. They are horrid! All red and yellow, 
and blue and purple and green. Come, let's go down to So 
and So's. There are some lovely things there by water-color 
painters who haven't gone crazy, and who see nature as she 
is; that is, as you and I see her." 

A few adventurous spirits went in to see the new departure! 

"I like his gray pictures quite well. That is beautiful. 
Just what I saw the other morning out of town, when I hap- 
pened to get up too early. But I never thought it would 
make a picture. And I like some of those colored things too, 
now I am getting used to them. Mercy, what a blaze of yel- 
low on the side of that peasant's cottage! Mr. Richards, do 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 49 

explain this! Oh yes, corn hung up to dry. Well, of course 
.it looks queer to us. But I suppose it is all right." 

In came, now and then, a number of artists, and a very 
few students who are beginning to feel nature's real brilliancy 
and light, that has as yet been only partially expressed. 

"What wonderful skies! and no two alike! How does he 
do it? Look at that distance, how it melts into the horizon 
like enchantment! and what a far-reaching space from the 
distance forward to the place where we seem to be standing; 
for I feel that I am in that picture, walking on that road, and 
just about to meet that group of peasants. By the way, do 
you see how the atmosphere enwraps these figures, and how it 
plays all through the landscape? I had the same feeling when 
I first saw in the National Gallery, London, that superb col- 
lection of Alpine pictures by England's great colorist, Turner. 
Macknight is another Turner, only he comes at the end of 
this century, and not at the beginning. A friend of his tells 
me that his one dread is that of falling into the banal in his 
composition. That is why he takes such unusual themes. 
Why, he paints from the top-story of a house; gets in 'all 
creation,' and seems to do it at lightning speed." 

"Too purple? Well, so it seems, sometimes. But isn't 
that necessary in order to force the other colors to the utmost 
possible limit? That is what Macknight is- working for — 
that with a dozen other things. Come now, let us be grateful 
for this eye-opener, even if it seems sometimes rather extreme! 
Do you remember one afternoon in September when, after 
nearly a week's storm and gray gloom, the sun burst forth 
with great brilliancy, and between the rifts of dark heavy 
clouds shot its beams, for a single instant, sharp into the 
east? On its way to the opposite horizon it flamed with 
unearthly brilliancy straight through the landscape which 
chanced to be before the fortunate observer. I was looking out 
from a rain-dripping porch upon an orchard, cool, moist, and 
green, except where this beam of light shot through, bathing 
the green grass and trees with a splendor impossible to des- 
cribe, or to paint in any known method. The ripening 
foliage of an elm against the purple-blue eastern sky was a 
symphony in 'old gold'; while coming towards me, in that 
blazing gleam of sunshine, were three little girls, one with 
a red hat, another with a red gown, and there was also, 



50 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

somehow, somewhere, a deep velvety blue and a white, 
which in shadow became pure cobalt. 

'"Oh!' I exclaimed, 'that could not be painted, save by a 
Monet or a Macknight! Did one in France, and the other 
in Spain, chance to see that vision as we saw it here in New 
England? I shall surely recognize that memorable effect if 
ever I see it painted.' " 

And so it went on. But alas! for two years we have seen 
no more of this artist's work. Art patrons will not buy; 
dealers cannot handle pictures which come back upon their 
hands unsold; and so the artist tarries in Spain, unhonored 
and unsung, while artists and pupils struggle on here, trying 
to get hold of the very ideas for the possession of which he is 
struggling and suffering in obscurity. 

While he was painting in his adopted home at Belle-Isle, 
off the coast of Northern France, Monet, with his disciples, 
was struggling through the same experience, searching for 
light, more light! sunshine, more sunshine! down in the dis- 
tant village of Giverny. I cannot learn that these men ever 
met, or even knew that they were brothers in progress and 
aspiration. Certain it is that mind force is just as powerful 
as any force; and from the hayricks and hillsides of Giverny 
there emanated a force which reached MacKnight at Belle- 
Ile-en-Mer, and which also attracted to the former place a 
few men like the late Louis Ritter and the brilliant painter, 
Theodore Wendel, who, searching for simple and as yet 
unpainted themes, came upon this same Giverny, fascinated 
by its unique character, and little thinking what a train of 
interest and progress they were firing. 

1894 

Macknight was painting in or around Orihuela 
during the whole of 1893. His only child, John 
Macknight, now a musician of promise, was born 
in Valserres during the year. 

In January, 1894, an exhibition was held in the 
St. Botolph Club, the leading musical and literary 
club of Boston; during the winter frequent exhibi- 
tions are held in the charming gallery attached to 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 51 

the building of this club. Fifty-eight pictures were 
shown, twelve of which were lent by local admirers: 
Frederic Amory, Harcourt Amory, Denman W. Ross, 
Mrs. Eugene R. Knapp, Miss L. M. Nathurst, 
Messrs. Doll & Richards, and the writer. None 
of these were Spanish subjects. Eugene Boch of 
Monthyon, France, lent three Spanish pictures. Of 
the remaining pictures on sale, one was painted 
in the north of France, two in the environs of Bar- 
celona, and forty in the "Environs of Murcia." The 
great bulk of the exhibition was therefore Spanish. 
The pictures were mostly painted at Orihuela, that 
city being in the environs of Murcia. No. 7, "Passers 
over the Bridge," represented the Orihuela bridge, 
and it was in regard to the persons passing over this 
bridge that the critics caustically remarked "There 
seem to be no toenails visible!" and "These are the 
figures little Willy used to draw on his slate!" This 
picture forms a valued part of the writer's collection. 
Nine pictures were sold from this exhibition and 
it represented two years' work. 

From the Folio, 18Q4. 

Mr. Dodge Macknight, of whom we wrote in the Decem- 
ber number of the Folio, has been seen to excellent advantage 
in his exhibition of water colors and a few pastels at the 
St. Botolph Club, Jan. 1-20. Nearly sixty pictures were 
shown, and the later ones show a great advance in breadth, 
simplicity, and in fullness and richness of color. Some of the 
quieter and more "finished" works won golden opinions from 
even the doubters; while the later pictures, Spanish chiefly, 
showed a daring, almost audacious use of color, which steadily 
fascinates the beholder the longer he remains in the gallery. 
In many of his later works figures are introduced, nearly 
always with the effect of motion. Bridges and streets 
crowded with people are very effective. Some of the most 



52 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

charming of his pictures are interiors; as, for instance, "A 
White Interior," one hung with maize, another containing 
two large jars and an outlook into another room. An hour 
with these pictures is like a visit to rural Spain, from which 
Macknight has gleaned subjects that no other artist has 
found or has dared to paint. It was pleasant to see that 
many of these works were finding purchasers. 

Helen M. Knowlton. 

From the Folio. 

* * * In seeking for an answer to this question it was 
an extreme measure to go from the Dutchmen at the Art 
Museum to the brilliant water colors of Macknight at the St. 
Botolph gallery. The transition was abrupt at first. Our 
eyes were dazzled by colors for which, personally, we had no 
predilection: orange, blue, green, crimson, not to say magenta. 
But we believe in Macknight as one of the new men with 
singular steadfastness in following his aim, that aim not to 
be dimmed by any lack of popular applause, by any amount 
of prejudice or ridicule. 

"Is he doing for painting what Wordsworth did for poetry?" 
was the pertinent inquiry of a highly-cultivated spectator. 
"If so, his work marks an epoch. To be sure, he does open our 
eyes to great fullness and intensity of color, but do we wish 
to see the utmost color of which nature is capable?" 

Why not? England stood aghast at Turner, charging him 
with astigmatized vision and a general tendency to unsound- 
ness of mind ; but Turner cared not. He was put upon the 
earth for a purpose, and he wished only to carry out that pur- 
pose. So, too, Macknight. He revels in the most intense 
and rollicking colors that can be found in Algiers or in Spain. 
Shall we refuse to look at his work because it does not look 
like Boston Common or a Back Bay sunset? 

Entering the gallery, the wall seemed like an immense pal- 
ette on which the primary colors had been thrown in all their 
brilliant purity. There was no compromise about these 
lavish and prodigal hues. Macknight is a most daring teller 
of the truth. If the sky is as blue as indigo, blue it is. If the 
sand is yellow, yellow it is. If a field is covered with red pep- 
pers, red it is. If a cabin-wall is hung with maize, as with a 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 53 

mantle of gold, gold it is. If a roof is orange in hue, down 
it goes, frankly orange. Aloes and cacti are as blue-green as 
nature meant they should be. But this is not all. With this 
tremendous force of color there is something else: a fine 
appreciation of distance, of aerial effect, and of a composition 
which sinks all needless detail in the great sweeps of the 
picture. There were marvelous skies, done with nothing but 
a little wholesome neglect; mountains that made dignified 
and retreating backgrounds — almost their only possible role 
in painting; streets full of people, hurrying along to market 
or to fetes; bridges over rivers with a rushing tide of humanity 
that made the rivers almost lie still by contrast; sunny gardens 
with swift suggestions of trees in blossom ; and interiors 
that were marvels of rapid execution of what has well been 
called "wit in painting." He is a giant who can see nature 
in such great sweeps of brush-work. When done it looks so 
simple that the veriest tyro may think he can do as well, or 
better. 

A singular effect of this. artist's work is found in the fact 
that the majority of his admirers are just two years behind in 
their appreciation of his pictures. Some have just arrived at 
a realizing sense of what he has from the first been trying to 
do. In two years from now they will comprehend his Spanish 
work of '93, just as they now praise his pictures of '90 and '91. 
It is best to be well ahead of the critics. When they shall have 
arrived upon the spot, the scene will have shifted and the 
artist again be far ahead. 

Original as are Macknight's interpretations of nature, 
never by any chance does an object find itself in the wrong 
place. It is "impressionism" in the legitimate sense of the 
word. Nothing is allowed to interfere with the first idea 
which the artist receives of his subject, and never for a mom- 
ent does his own personality enter into it. Unlike his broth- 
ers of the oil-brush, he does not seek to lay the prismatic colors 
side by side, as seems to be necessary in this modern disin- 
tegration of tone. The water-colorist, seeking for light and 
pure color, has valuable assistance from his white paper, 
his highest note. The oil-painter must get his light with 
paint, which may be thick and pasty unless wisely and 
skillfully placed in the right juxtaposition of colors, one with 
another. 



54 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

From the Herald. 

Mr. W. D. Macknight, the artist whose water colors have 
created a new departure in art which will be some day recog- 
nized at the highest market value, has recently sent to Amer- 
ica two pictures that must be considered radiant examples of 
genius. The word is used advisedly, for no water-colorist in 
Europe has impressed his art with more splendid force than has 
Mr. Macknight in these studies of Southern France. They 
are not only most lovely in their poetic suggestion, but extra- 
ordinary in the vigor and freedom of their drawing, and the 
marvelous and daring color which dominates the observer 
like a burst of joy. Whoever owns a water color by this artist 
may deem himself fortunate, as the time is not far off when his 
pictures will be priceless. 

VALSERRES 

It was at this time that the artist became so dis- 
couraged at the difficulties which beset his path that 
he half resolved to give up further contest with fate. 
He left Orihuela with his family in March, 1894, 
and all went to visit Boch, who was established at 
Monthyon, France; and from there, in the summer, 
they went to Valserres in the French Alps. This 
was a crisis when Macknight's art came perilously 
near its end. He wrote some articles for the maga- 
zines accompanied by illustrations, which fortunately 
were not accepted or our artist might have found a 
new career. The text was later printed in the 
Boston Evening Transcript. 

In the autumn, when the foliage began to assume 
its brilliant colors, the old call was too strong, and 
he again took up the brush and started a series of 
pictures in and around the mountain home of Mrs. 
Macknight. These charming water colors are among 
the most remarkable of all of the artist's works ; the 
harmony of tones is simply wonderful. Dr. Ross 
of Cambridge owns one which is exquisite; and 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 55 

Mr. Joseph E. Chandler, the architect, has two in 
his office which are enchanting. Perhaps the long 
rest from painting, the natural beauty of the sub- 
jects, and the despair of the artist at the thought 
of abandoning his art, conspired to produce these 
results. The subjects are generally mountain tor- 
rents and brilliant foliage, blue mountains, and 
some garden scenes. 

1895 

In May, 1895, an effort was made by a few friends 
of the artist in Boston to exhibit some of his pictures 
in a way which would not be attended with much 
expense, and to assist in the purpose, Mrs. Henry 
Whitman offered the use of her studio for three days. 
There was a printed catalogue of the collection. 
Twenty-seven pictures were gathered, eleven were 
Belle-Ile subjects, two were loan pictures, and the 
remainder were of the Valserres series. The prices 
varied from thirty-five to one hundred and twenty- 
five dollars; the result was disheartening. 

The artist remained during the whole of this year 
in Valserres, continuing his studies in the spring of 
blossoming trees. He visited Le Puy, a picturesque 
French town on the summit of a hill. The writer 
had one of these water colors hanging over his 
office desk for several years; it was later captured 
by one of his daughters, Mrs. C. A. Van Rensselaer, 
and it is now in her house in New York. 

The Alpine pictures are seen from quite a different 
point of view in the following extract from an article 
appearing in a New York paper in 1895: 

On either side of the entrace to the Vanderbilt galleries 
are a pair of monstrosities signed by Dodge Macknight. 
Whether these are the result of the eccentricities of genius, 



56 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

something too much advanced for the nineteenth century to 
appreciate, or whether they have been sent in and hung as a 
joke, I do not know. Had they been better painted, I should 
have thought they were escapes from last year's Fakir's 
Exhibition. Yet, knowing the seriousness with which such 
men as those on the hanging committee manage an exhibi- 
tion of this kind, I suppose these pictures have been seriously 
considered and given their places. This is rough on the public. 
What we have done to deserve it, I do not know. Mr. Mac- 
knight's two pictures are Nos. 246 and 248. They are cata- 
logued "A Rainy Day in the Alps" and "Winter Sunshine." 
In their defense, I heard one of the artists say, "They are not 
commonplace. Mr. Macknight had a thought." This is most 
undoubtedly true; they are not commonplace, but there 
are lots of very offensive things that could be pronounced 
not commonplace. I do not doubt that when Mr. Mac- 
knight made these sketches he had a thought; it may have 
been a good one, and when he noted it with crude lemon-yel- 
low and brilliant purple, it was likely a good idea; but at the 
best it was only a note, a suggestion, not a picture; the place 
for it was the portfolio, not an exhibition where hangs the 
work of men and women who have mastered their art. The 
exhibitions during the last few years have been too full of this 
kind of thing. If artists wish to show their work in a half- 
finished condition, they should hold an exhibition of unfin- 
ished sketches, into which would be admitted leaves from 
sketch books, little daubs on pads, cuffs on which the enthu- 
siast has imprinted the last rays of a fleeting sunset, and 
scraps of wallpaper decorated by the moony art student. 
An author's notebook is doubtless very interesting and very 
full of thought, and not commonplace; but would he on any 
such grounds be allowed to put his thoughts before the public 
in any such shape?" Lillian Baynes. 

On March 10, 1895, Mr. Arthur Chamberlain pub- 
lished in the Boston Sunday Post a letter entitled: 
"Macknight's Art. What he has to say in explana- 
tion of his color scheme." The letter reflects so well 
the current interest in the artist and his work that 
the writer has given it in full: 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 57 

The funny man on various Boston papers will lose one 
opportunity this season: Mr. W. Dodge Macknight has 
decided not to give any public exhibition. One may offer 
them sympathetic condolence; there are so few really new 
materials for wit, that the public has long ago excused their 
trifling with subjects that might seem worthy the dignified 
efforts of serious criticism. 

Yet, it may prove instructive and profitable to consider 
the point 'of view of this young painter — who certainly is not 
so rich as to be without the incentive to paint popular and 
taking pictures — regarding this chosen art of his. 

Replying to a suggestion that he should tone down his 
glowing color and bring his scale nearer to the. average per- 
ception, he writes: "Your argument as to toning down my 
color is ingenious, but it will not hold water. There are 
issues at stake more vital than you seem to think. 

"Is the first principle of art, liberty or not? Is art a cor- 
ner of nature seen through a temperament, or not? If my 
temperament finds expression in the purest colors that are 
made for the moment (while hoping for others better), must 
my color be toned down and washed out and bleached away 
before so-called connoisseurs will look at it? One end of the 
scale has dipped and trailed in muddy browns and dirty grays 
for centuries; it is certainly but fair play to give the other 
end a chance." 

To the argument that the artist, as a revealer, should not 
expect too much of his public at once, but should lead them 
step by step towards his conception, he replies: 

"Nature is before us, infinite in suggestion, and let every 
man be free to choose what touches and thrills him. That 
is exactly his mission and he can only be a 'revealer' when he 
reveals what charms him without toning down or' distorting 
his vision." 

Further on, he declares with reference to his intense color- 
ing, "I am not up on the tips of my toes, screeching high C. I 
sing soprano." 

It is not necessary, certainly, that one should hold impres- 
sionism in general, or the style of Mr. Macknight in particu- 
lar, to be the sole technique for the production of true art. 
Tastes differ, even when tastes are good; and Mr. Macknight 
is as slow to limit another's liberty as he is strenuous to insist 



58 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

upon his own. But it ought at least to be clear that he is not 
a faddist, nor a sensationalist, nor an impostor, who has 
assumed a certain eccentric technique in the hope of catching 
the nimble sixpence. 

The question is much larger than any personal one con- 
cerning Mr. Macknight. America has not enjoyed those 
generations of aesthetic training that make good taste a com- 
mon heritage; and if her professed art critics incline more to 
censure and ridicule, than to careful study and intelligent 
explanation of the techniques and purpose that are being 
developed by artists of various schools, when may we expect 
to have a well-instructed public and an art that shall be 
creditable to us as a nation? 

Arthur Chamberlain. 

TO SPAIN AGAIN 
1896 

Friends in Boston having sold several of his 
pictures and four more having been purchased by 
Mr. Keith in Brookline, due to the efforts of a lady 
friend, a substantial remittance was sent to Valserres, 
and Macknight made up his mind to return to Spain 
at once; and thus came about the second visit to that 
country in 1896-7. He left Valserres soon after 
Christmas, 1895, and early in 1896 took up his resi- 
dence again in Orihuela and was joined by his wife 
and son a little later. He once more resumed his 
accustomed work. A room was taken at the posada 
overlooking the bridge, and from the window the 
bridge pictures were painted. The price of this room 
was but forty cents per day, and by the exercise of 
strict economies the total living expenses were 
reduced to about one dollar per day. It was under 
these circumstances that the crisis in his professional 
career was successfully overcome. 

At this time Macknight reduced his color schemes 
somewhat. He had already adopted this plan to a 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 59 

certain extent during the latter part of his visit to 
Valserres; his water colors became a little grayer 
in tone, although to the casual observer this change 
may not be apparent. 

The year 1896 was the only one in his career when 
he did not have a public exhibition somewhere. He 
was busily at work preparing for a resumption of 
his regular exhibitions in Boston. 



1897 

The sixth regular Boston exhibition was opened in 
the gallery of Messrs. Doll & Richards in March, 
after an interim of five years. Thirty pictures 
were shown; the subjects were all Spanish; the 
prices ranged from fifty to one hundred and fifty 
dollars. No. 27, "La Leja," represented an interior 
containing two enormous red pottery jars for the 
storage of olive oil and water, besides other crockery 
on a low shelf near the floor, now owned by Mrs. 
Robert J. Clark of Dedham. There were several pic- 
tures of the Arab town of Abanilla, near Orihuela, 
and others of huts in the Sierras, the bridge near the 
inn, and studies of still life. Two of the pictures 
were in black and white transparent color, with a 
dash of gouache. The following were among the 
Boston reviews of the exhibition: 

Transcript, March 2j, i8gy. 

MACKNIGHT AND HIS ENTHUSIASM — AN APPRECIATION 

To start with a firm conviction that for one's self, at least, 
there is but one way to achieve that perfection which is dearer 
to the artist than are all the plaudits springing from an 
acknowledged success; to shape style out of personality; to 
wrestle with it in the face of all men, taking their jeers as part 



60 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

of the price; then at last to find one's self master of the chosen 
technique, swaying it in a happy obedience, playing with it 
fearlessly, in the consciousness of victory; that, if his latest 
work may be taken as the final test, is the story of the long, 
arduous, and unregarded toil of Mr. Dodge Macknight. 

* * * his art was not to be an art of theory, clever- 
ness, or chic, but — to use his own words — "art itself, the 
expression of the personal temperament, the only thing that 
can possibly live, built on the solid and eternal base of con- 
tinual communion with nature. "This is the art that," he 
writes, "I represent." 

Bold words, these! They are a challenge and a defiance. 
Are they mere brag and bluster, or do they spring from honest 
and well-founded conviction? It seems impossible to read 
Mr. Macknight's letters, to catch the stress of his eager 
strenuousness, and not to acknowledge the sincerity of his 
utterances. Can he make them good? Let us judge him by 
his work. Mere blusterers do not cut themselves adrift with 
no adequate financial backing, for the sake of art and art 
alone. Facile compliance is a far easier road to the public's 
pocketbook. It is the fine thing in this new development of 
of Mr. Macknight's art that it is the normal and legitimate 
outcome of his chosen method. The color remains pure; its 
brilliancy has but gained in delicacy. "A Spanish Venice" has 
a soft loveliness of color that few would have dared to predict 
of this artist's style; it is a triumph of tender pinks and delight- 
ful tones of yellow, with a sky melting blue, and reflections 
that make one feel the transparency of the limpid water; the 
tree in the foreground and the greenery under the bridge are 
free from harshness, yet the light of out-of-doors is there; black 
is absent — probably there is not one atom of absolute black 
in the entire collection — the picture pleases, yet the artist is 
not stultified. It is an honorable success. 

It would be unfair to Mr. Macknight to present him as 
indifferent or contemptuous toward honest criticism. His 
replies are as courteous as they are suggestive. Referring to 
Turner, he writes: 

"He is the father of everybody who sees color in nature. 
And he saw it in his time with almost, if not quite as much 
intensity as we see it to-day. That's the extraordinary part 
of it. Suppose he dropped off painting color because other 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 61 

people didn't see any? You can't imagine any such thing, 
can you? There wouldn't have been any Turner left." 

Nor are all the pictures in the present exhibition at Messrs. 
Doll & Richards' painted in a brilliant key. "The Arab 
Town of Abanilla" and 'Abanilla from Across the Ravine" 
are soft in delicate tones, though without abatement of the 
out-of-door feeling; justifying the artist's own statement, "I 
find that a picture by a colorist, even in grays (not browns, 
mind you, which are simply lack of color) will hold more or 
less even with the brightest things." It might prove instruc- 
tive to consider how far this perception proved the clew that 
led the artist to his present success. 

Yet it is when the old test of full light — "the light of the 
public square" — is applied, that Mr. Macknight's jewel- 
like purity and brilliancy of coloring is best comprehended. 
"A Near View of the Sierra," with the sunlight striking across 
the gallery-wall, is only the stronger in its superb modeling 
and more delightful in its tones. 

"A Bridge Scene in Orihuela" and "Orihuela from a Dis- 
tance" are good examples of the artist's capacity for opening- 
up a view; the first is vivacious, with a number of character- 
istic figures, and the second leads the spectator's eye through 
ever-changing beauties to the distant mountains. 

Not garish, though brilliant, with ample modeling and 
vigorous drawing, are the figure-pieces; and though still-life 
seldom has much of popular interest, the most casual spec- 
tator, one would think, might be sorry to miss "La Leja," 
with its huge red semi-circular jars, their projecting points 
holding them against the white and blue shelves, with a wealth 
of ceramics in the background. 

Thirty pictures in all, two of them showing what the artist 
can do in black and white — what a chance for a new illus- 
trated edition of "Don Quixote"! — and scarcely more than a 
trace of body-color in any of them! Transparent washes al- 
most wholly; surely this is as "legitimate" as it is remarkable. 

Well may Mr. Macknight declare: "I like men with enthu- 
siasm and noble impulses." It takes enthusiasm to dwell in 
places like Valserres and Orihuela for the sake of art, married 
and with a flaccid purse, and the nobility of impulse. "As 
long as a man is in earnest and has some solid stuffing in him," 
he writes, "I don't care whether he differs from me or not." 



62 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

And again: "I sing soprano. It's my natural voice, but I 
don't go howling about the broad earth that soprano is the 
only voice worth listening to." Surely there is nothing arro- 
gant or peevish in such admissions, but a generous nobleness 
of perception. 

One would be sorry to give the impression that because this 
artist has at length his style well in hand, there remain no 
worlds for him to conquer. Rather let the cry be "Forward!" 
as he goes forth armed and equipped. Unless the signs 
deceive, this D'Artagnan of art may well carry a marshal's 
baton in his knapsack. 

Arthur Chamberlain. 



RETURNS TO AMERICA 

The beginning of the "unpleasantness" between 
the United States and Spain took place in 1897, 
and in consequence Macknight did not accom- 
plish as much work as during the preceding year. 
The Spaniards treated the American artist with 
respect, but unrest was in the air and he finally de- 
cided to return to his native land, after an absence of 
about fourteen years. His wife and child returned 
to Valserres and in September the departure was 
made on board of a fruit steamer leaving from a 
port nearby, and he landed in Brooklyn in October, 
without any definite plans. A friend was living in 
Greenfield, Mass., and there he passed the following 
winter. 

1898 

During the latter part of February, 1898, an ex- 
hibition of twelve of his pictures was held in New 
Bedford. The collection was miscellaneous in char- 
acter. Two of the water colors were painted in 
Greenfield: No. 8, "Deerfield River, Mass.," and 
No. 9, "An Oak, Edge of Deerfield Meadows." 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 63 

In March the artist brought a few pictures to 
Boston, and it was at this time that the writer first 
had the pleasure of meeting him. 

MYSTIC 

Early in May a group of seven of his landscapes was 
hung at Messrs. Doll & Richards' rooms, and were 
favorably noticed in the newspapers. It was then 
that Macknight met Charles H. Davis, the dis- 
tinguished landscape artist, who persuaded Mac- 
knight to return with him to Mystic, Conn., where 
Davis was painting. This meeting finally resulted 
in Macknight's sending for his family, hiring a 
house, and resuming his work in Mystic; thus, while 
the Spanish war raged, the little family became 
again united. 

While at Mystic, our artist began the painting of 
snow scenes which later were destined to form such 
an important feature in his art. 

1899 

In February, 1899, Messrs. Doll & Richards held 
their seventh exhibition of Macknight's water 
colors. Thirty pictures were shown: three of them 
painted in Spain, one near Paris, nine in the French 
Alps, and the seventeen remaining were entered as 
of "New England," really Mystic subjects. The 
contrast between the vivid coloring of the Valserres 
or French Alps pictures and those from New England 
was very marked. This was one of the most interest- 
ing of all Macknight's exhibitions, because it was 
the only one of importance at which have been 
collected, as a distinct group, the wonderful Valserres 
pictures. It is to the credit of the Boston critics that 
they recognized their great merit and received them 



64 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

with open arms; the only surprise, however, was 
that they were not quickly carried off by collectors. 
It is probable that their cool reception on the part 
of buyers led the artist to consign them for some 
years to portfolio oblivion. 

Lillian Whiting in the Sunday Inter -Ocean, Chicago, 
of Feb. 19, 1899, thus refers to this part of the 
exhibition: 

One of these pictures called the "Joy of Life" ("La joie de 
vivre") is bewitchingly sunny and glowing. Everything in it 
is alive. The flowers are gaining a richer tint, the leaves 
dance on the breeze, the air is full of bird songs. Another 
beautiful effect of radiance and color is "A Peach-Tree in 
Bloom." One seems even to catch the perfume. 

The following extracts from the Boston newspapers 
are added: 

From the Boston Herald. 

Dodge Macknigh't, the water-colorist and impressionist, 
who is one of the real sort, is living in Mystic, Conn., and is 
painting some of the wonderful scenery of that region. He has 
a little house way up the side of Pequot Hill, with a sweeping 
view from his studio windows. It is a tiny cottage, with a 
basement at the back beneath the studio. The hill runs so 
steeply down that one enters the house from the level of the 
road, and walking through the rooms to the rear, looks out as 
from a second-story window. The surprise is charming. Mr. 
Macknight would not be the fine artist he is, the painter of 
such tremendous effects, did he not love nature in all her 
phases, and his outdoor life is therefore first and foremost, 
then comes the studio, which is as foreign a corner as could 
possibly screep into the Nutmeg State. With all this, he has 
a pretty little garden of flowers and vegetables beautifully 
kept, taking all the care, and perfect care, too, of it himself — 
trees, shrubs, and vines — a cheerful little place as one could 
wish to see. If the "artistic atmosphere" of Europe could 
only be bottled up and imported for the benefit of artists over 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 65 

here, it would be to their spiritual advantage; but Mr. Mac- 
knight seems to have solved the difficulty, as far as he per- 
sonally is concerned, by planting himself in that sweet country 
spot, and insisting on living in free communion with nature. 
His later works bear witness to this influence, for while dif- 
fering, of course, from the splendid sunshine of his Spanish 
pictures, the "local color" of these new studies shows what a 
master he is in obtaining "impressions" of fleeting light. Mr. 
Macknight is the one American artist who paints color. That 
is, he makes a critic feel there is something beside water colors 
in the subject before him. 

From the Boston Evening Transcript, Feb. 4, i8qq. 

* * * The pictures painted lately in Connecticut are 
choice and original; there are good things about them that one 
does not see elsewhere; they are racey, full-flavored, broad, 
and big. The five congenial pictures hung in the group on the 
east wall make a most interesting study: "A Tangle of Sum- 
acs" (30), "Road in the Wood-Snow" (29), "Virgin Purity" 
(27), and "Cold and Gray" (28) surround the gorgeous if 
somewhat incoherent "Joie de Vivre" (6), a sort of chromatic 
Fourth of July. 

Down at Mystic, Conn., Mr. Macknight is finding a world 
of admirable motives for his spirited and untamed muse. 
(There is no muse of painting, but one most be invented for 
the sake of art criticism.) His "Song for Walt Whitman" (15) 
is well-named, because it has in it the American feeling of 
free open largeness, optimism, and natural impulses of hur- 
rah-boys! We pity those artificial people who can see any 
vulgarity in this real thing. It is sunny, clean, generous, and 
sweet. It comes straight from the artist's heart. 

From the Saturday Evening Gazette. 

The exhibition and private sale of water-color drawings by 
Dodge Macknight at the gallery of Messrs. Doll & Richards 
is attracting much comment, both favorable and otherwise. 
After hearing the criticisms of many of my artist friends, I 
went there prepared to see some horrible caricatures of art. 
I was, on the other hand, charmed with what I saw. Mr. 
Macknight is an impressionist, pure and simple, and a good 



66 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

exponent he is of the school. There are thirty pictures in the 
exhibition, and while there were some I did not particularly 
like, there was not one that was not full of light and air and 
"go." The sunny scenes were so happy that it would cure a 
man who was suffering from the blues. I do not know any- 
thing about Spain, its atmosphere or sunlight. Perhaps that 
was the reason I cared less for those scenes, but if his New 
England pictures were not true to the spirit, without being 
photographic in their realism, I have yet to see any that are. 
It takes time to become used to the brightness, however. 
His "First Snow" was a gem. His "Sunny Morning" was so 
full of light the observer feels tempted to sing in very happi- 
ness. "A Song of Walt Wihtman" was an illustration of how 
much poetry could be thrown into a picture of a New England 
country town, in which red buildings, awfully bright green 
fields, and white house-tops predominate. I shall always be 
glad to look at Mr. Macknight's pictures. 

William Albert Nichols. 

In 1899 six landscapes were shown in the water- 
color exhibition in New York, and in December five 
were exhibited in New Orleans. Of the former, 
the critics wrote: "They are remarkable and suffi- 
ciently restrained to give an impression of truth to 
nature." (Sic!) At New Orleans, several admirers 
kept the atmosphere warm in the artist's defense. 

SANDWICH 
1900 

While Macknight was in Mystic, he began to 
consider seriously the idea of selecting a home. 
His thoughts naturally turned to his native state, 
Rhode Island, although his attempts in art had 
received but scanty recognition in that part of the 
world; but nothing seemed to turn up within his 
means and at the same time favorably situated in a 
beautiful country. One day he met an old acquaint- 
ance in the South Station, Boston, who said to him, 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 67 

"Come down to the Cape," and this resulted in a 
move to Cape Cod with his family in the spring of 
1900. 

He occupied a little cottage near the present 
East Sandwich station, and this cottage is now 
the post-office for that district. In the autumn a 
final move was made to his present charming home, 
somewhat nearer to the town of Sandwich, nearly 
two miles east of the village. Here Macknight 
has lived for twelve years. The grounds have 
gradually changed their complexion under his fos- 
tering care. Here shrubs have been planted to act 
as a shield or to give a boundary; here a fine 
kitchen-garden has been gradually developed; here 
peaches and other fruits climb a lattice as in the old 
world; and just in the rear of the house blossom 
many fine hybrid tea roses. The house is an old 
square Cape house of the best type, and it has 
responded to careful touches of harmonious color. 
Connected with the house is a studio where any 
visitor who cares may be shown some of the pro- 
ducts of the artist's brush: water colors from the 
tropics or from the frozen mountains, from the 
sunny land of Spain or the hospitable sands of the 
Cape. 

In March the eighth of Messrs. Doll & Richards' 
exhibitions was held in Boston, "depicting the im- 
print of the seasons upon the pastures, ponds, and 
woods of New England." There were thirty pic- 
tures; they were painted during 1899 at Mystic — 
mostly in the woods. 

The following is one of the criticisms from the 
Boston papers: 

* * * form a cycle of the seasons as they show their 
tints and shapes in the pastures, ponds, and woods of New 



68 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

England. From winter to winter, through the intervening 
months of swiftly-changing phases, the painter, with a single 
aim, has set forth the aspects of nature, unveiled by the gilded 
fogs of pictorial tradition. In his fidelity to his ideal, and in 
the faculty that he possesses of portraying the distinguishing 
peculiarities of landscape themes, of seeking the most vivid 
intimacy, the most homely, real, and natural look of the 
country, unalloyed by prejudice, conventions, or mannerisms, 
as much as may be untempered by bias, personal or sectarian, 
he has succeeded completely. There are thus shown in his 
landscapes certain things that we are glad to recognize as 
beautiful, natural phenomena, which we have not seen painted 
before. There is pleasure in such discoveries, and there is 
gratitude due for them. Mr. Macknight has always been 
an independent painter, an explorer, an original. His work 
is not less brilliant in its color, but it is less harsh ; he observes 
more and more closely, but not less broadly than before. 
Every good observer of nature is qualified to judge of the fine 
degree of objective truth in these landscapes. Fewer are 
those who can realize how isolated, unique, and separate are 
the lines followed by the artist, yet here is his greater claim. 
Take the three autumn pictures in the eastern corner of the 
gallery as examples which illustrate, perhaps as well as any in 
the collection, the absolute directness, integrity of vision, and 
painter-like way of dealing with appearances: "Blow, blow, 
thou bitter wind" (19), "Leaves are torn from the oaks" (20), 
and "A Misty Harmony of Rose and Purple" (18). These 
are so far from the conception of a painting as a design prim- 
arily, as a drawing tinted, that they might be taken as typical 
exemplars of the modern landscape point of view ; for in them 
the idea of atmosphere, of movement, and of color is so pre- 
dominant as to almost hide the fact of structure, which exists 
necessarily, but almost unperceived. A very near approach 
to the sanctum sanctorum is made; nothing more natural, 
more familiar, can be imagined. 

1901 

Although Macknight was busy getting his family 
settled in Sandwich, he found time to paint enough 
pictures to form an exhibition in March 1901 — 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 69 

Messrs. Doll & Richards' ninth. There were thirty 
pictures, Cape Cod subjects: one snowstorm, several 
dunes, autumn foliage in the swamps, beach plums, 
and lupins. For the first time, the glorious and 
riotous coloring of the Cape began to appear in its 
true light. It did not take the artist long to under- 
stand the particular scenery of the Cape and to 
appreciate it at its just worth. The most startling 
effects are generally found there during the latter 
part of October or early in November, as the richer 
foliage effects are, as a rule, a little late. 

On October 28 of this year, the writer accompanied 
Mr. Macknight on a walking trip over the dunes 
on "Sandy Neck," Barnstable, and it was an occasion 
which will never fade from the memory. This 
narrow neck of land is on the outside of the marshes 
in the harbor. It is composed of a wilderness of 
dunes and dwarf vegetation; extending for several 
miles on the ocean side is an interminable beach. 
No handiwork of man is anywhere visible and with 
the exception of a few shooting lodges, everything 
is probably in the same condition that it has been 
for thousands of years, save those minor changes that 
nature is always carrying out. 

We walked upon the separating lips of the sand 
barriers between the dunes. The day was an inspir- 
ing one. Marvelous clouds rolled in majesty across 
the sky, but did not interfere materially with the 
brilliant sunlight effects. On the ocean side two long 
points jutted out into the sea, forming purple 
frames for the landscape on that side, while the 
deep green waves played with masses of reddish- 
brown seaweed on the beach. In the middle distance 
of the ocean, the water assumed a light blue color 
merging gradually into a pinkish mist upon the horizon. 



70 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

Without moving from his position, the writer 
turned his eyes to the west, and there stretched the 
brilliant yellow marshes, scintillating in the sun like 
a great jewel and dotted with pools of amethyst water 
left behind by the receding tide. At our feet were 
the sand dunes of varying tints. Here was one filled 
with dwarfed oaks, partly buried, which were a mass 
of dazzling scarlet, while adjoining was a great 
depression of pure mauve sand across which stole 
long purple shadows. Everywhere nature was wild 
with a great riotous holiday of blazing colors, and in 
every direction that the eye wandered was a perfect 
picture that the hand of man could only imperfectly 
interpret. Such was Sandy Neck on that glorious 
October afternoon. 

The papers were no longer filled with interpreta- 
tions of the artist's work; the effect of the success of 
the impressionist movement also was beginning to 
open the eyes of the critics; for instance, the follow- 
ing, taken from one of the leading dailies referring 
to this exhibition, says: 



". . . Saxon and Norman and Dane are we, 
But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee." 

Mr. Macknight has been living in Sandwich the past year, 
and he has found a mine of splendid landscape subjects there. 
Cape Cod is sui generis; climate, complexion, flora, soil, 
everything, is distinctive. The dunes are a country in them- 
selves — a wonderland of majestic forms and fascinating 
colors. The woods, ponds, swamps, hills, sea, and sky have a 
touch of foreignness; they hardly belong to the North Ameri- 
can continent. Mr. Macknight has evidently taken great 
pleasure in exploring and painting this country, particularly 
its chromatic passages, which he has rendered with all his 
audacity and confidence. 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 71 

1902 

In January, 1902, a second exhibition was held in 
New Bedford. There were eight Cape Cod subjects. 
A critic, writing to the Mercury, says : 

To one who is not accustomed to the study of Nature when 
she is glowing with color, the effects of Mr. Macknight's 
pictures may appear at first glance somewhat startling; but 
certainly there is never a false note in the harmony of color, 
and never hesitation in drawing, or feebleness in expression. 
One of the strongest reasons for the success of Macknight's 
work arises from the fact that all of his pictures are studied 
and executed directly from nature and never produced in the 
studio. This accounts for the great variety in his work and 
the stamp of faithfulness which is marked all over his draw- 
ings. Anyone who possesses one of these masterly water 
colors will always enjoy its power and charm more and more, 
the longer it is lived with. 

The Evening Standard, New Bedford, Massachusetts, January 

24, 1Q02. 

THE NEED OF EYES 

An exhibition of striking and unusual paintings which is 
now going on in this city is almost as interesting for the com- 
ments of the spectators as for the paintings themselves. These 
comments illustrate perfectly how little the ordinary person 
sees of what is going on around him. De Quincey, we think, 
wrote once in wonder at the small knowledge men in general 
have of the sky — of its changing appearances, its lights and 
shadows, its gloom and its radiance, its splendors, its mag- 
nificences. Any such exhibition as that of these paintings, 
demonstrates how little most of us know about the face of 
nature. We — that is, some of us — go into the gallery, look 
for half a minute at what at first glance seems to be a formless 
group of bright splotches, say "Oh, my! nobody ever saw 
anything like that!" (as a girl of the vivacious order screamed 
the other day), and go off to tell how "fierce" the show is. 
Suppose you sit down quietly for ten minutes, not too near 
the pictures, and let the artist's meaning percolate into your 
brain. If you have any sensibility at all, and if you have 



72 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

any real apprehension of nature, you will soon discover that 
whether you ever saw scenes like these or not, the artist did, 
and that he has put on the paper his expression in color of 
what he saw. That you never saw it, is not his fault. Per- 
haps it is not yours, but it is surely your misfortune. The 
artist is trying to open your eyes ; and if, with an awakening 
sense of what nature can do in the way of brilliant colors and 
splendid effects, and with some comprehension of what a man 
who has the vision can see, you go out into the fields and 
forests and by the sea, you will find that no painter can 
exaggerate, but that the trouble, if there has been one, has 
been in your own dullness of vision. Such compositions as 
"Lupins" and "The Marshes and the Sea," in the collection 
to which we are referring, are examples of what the man with 
the open eye and the open mind can see. We are not sure 
that in its details we can tell the story accurately, but the 
thought is appropriate. A pompous and self-sufficient critic, 
looking at a painting of a gorgeous sunset, said, "I never saw 
a sunset like that," to which the artist replied, "Don't you 
wish you could?" Criticism and query state perfectly the 
differing attitudes of different spectators of a painting. People 
who are quick to assert that they never saw anything in nature 
like Mr. Macknight's paintings would do well to inquire if 
they could see it if it did exist. 

The tenth exhibition at Messrs. Doll & Richards' 
gallery was held in March, 1902; all of the pictures 
were Cape Cod subjects. No. 1, "Elizabeth and her 
Garden," owned by the Union Club, Boston, was 
much admired by the artists. No. 17, "The Grinding 
Waters," was a picture of heavy surf breaking on a 
sandy shore, and has been exhibited in Boston, New 
York, and Philadelphia. No. 31, "Through the 
Dunes," was one of the most striking compositions 
in the exhibition. It represented on the left a lot of 
exposed roots, like snakes, protruding from a dune, 
probably the remains of an old buried forest. From 
the right a long purple shadow followed the contour 
of the sand, while yellow and green-covered dunes 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 73 

rose to the sky-line on the right; the sky itself was 
filled with clouds. No. 19, "Snowstorm," repre- 
sented the artist's barn and his piazza roof covered 
with snow. It is a wonderful snow picture, full of 
the loneliness of a New England yard and the 
poetical charm of the storm. 

From the Boston Evening Transcript. 

MACKNIGHT'S WATER COLORS 

To the Editor of the Transcript:— It is a real pleasure to praise 
Dodge Macknight's beautiful water colors now on exhibition 
at Doll & Richards'. Each year this master gives us a new 
sensation. We have wandered with the artist through Spain, 
France, and Belle-Ile, and enjoyed the charms of nature as he 
sees them ; and what a wealth of revelation he has unfolded 
to our gaze! 

For the past two years he has established himself upon Cape 
Cod near East Sandwich, and now we are learning how superb 
this inhospitable coast really is. 

The present exhibition contains about a dozen pictures of 
sand dunes near Barnstable, and they are painted with a 
strength and delicacy peculiarly characteristic of Macknight's 
work. Then there are winter views which have the real 
spirit of the snow and wind. Here are also breakers dashing 
upon the sand, which require only the roar of the surf and the 
smell of the salt breeze to transport one to the shore. Here 
are also more inland views of cranberry bogs scintillating in 
the bright October air, and charming little ponds surrounded 
by purple trees and bounded by distant hills. 

Such a wealth of color has surely never been presented to 
the public before. "Too much," some say. "Unnatural," 
say others. But I have noticed as time passes that the num- 
ber of admirers is steadily increasing. The impression that 
these incomparable little pictures makes upon the mind is 
marvelous. A remarkable phase of the admiration they 
excite is the fact that so many young people are loud in their 
praise. The fact of it is that the plein-air school has made 
converts of the rising generation, and this kind of work has 
come to stay. 



74 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

One of Macknight's water colors is an endless source of 
delight. They brighten any room. They are sparkling and 
cheerful. No one can have the blues long in their company. 
They glow upon one. Surely the artist has some trick (or is 
it genius?) by which he steals the most subtle effects of light 
and shade. Poems, I call them, but my wife says she has heard 
this before and I must not deal in platitudes. However, I 
have taken my pen only to warn everyone who may happen to 
read these lines to see and admire these water colors before 
they are taken down on Wednesday. 

Desmond FitzGerald. 
Brookline, March 29. 

One of the best criticisms of this exhibition was 
written by Philip L. Hale in the Advertiser of 
March 27. He wrote: 

. . . What impresses me is the immense sincerity of 
this work. I won't say conscientiousness, because as Hunt 
says, "Art begins where consciousness leaves off," which I take 
to mean that an artist gets things right not because he feels he 
has to or ought to, but because he likes to. These things in a 
large sense are very right. The burrower, the smeller of pic- 
tures, will find many things not to his liking. But the general 
aspect of these pictures is surprisingly right in truth to a first 
impression. 

Among the pictures which I especially noted was one 
opposite the door (No. 5), of the back of sand dunes. It is a 
subject which almost any other painter would have passed by 
as unpaintable — as the abomination of desolation. But Mr. 
Macknight has perceived in this the elements of a picture, and 
has made out of it a very subtly arranged and able composi- 
tion. The way the land running back into the distance 
models is quite remarkable. The nuances of color are so deli- 
cate as to be almost imperceptible and yet the middle distance 
takes its place in relation to the foreground. The shadows 
of the little hills may seem a trifle blue — yet I take it that 
their strength is needed in the general effect. 

It is in the treating of a subject containing flowers that Mr. 
Macknight is particularly strong. No. 1, "Elizabeth and Her 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 75 

Garden," (has Mr. Macknight too fallen under the ways of 
Elizabeth?). This picture suggests a light and vitality of 
color. The colors are dashed on with immense audacity. 
There is nothing "fade," weak, or tired-looking here. Those 
defects that almost always weaken water colors are wholly 
avoided. And the strongest water-color quality, which I take 
to be that luminous quality which white paper lightly-stained 
with transparent color always has, is made the most of. This 
picture looks as if the man had had fun doing it. The reds 
and yellows of the flowers are overwhelming. And Elizabeth's 
little white house makes a cool note in the corner. 

The Transcript called him "The King of Impres- 
sionists." 

One of the interesting phases of the changes in 
the points of view was the fact that many of those 
who had followed Macknight in his preceding efforts 
declared in this, that he had "abjured to a great 
extent his rampant impressionisms," whereas if his 
works of 1902 had been placed side by side with those 
exhibited in 1888, it would be seen that they had 
gained in strength and color. 

In connection with the exhibition of the Water 
Color Club of this year, the following appreciation 
from the pen of Mr. Philip L. Hale appeared in one 
of the daily papers: 

* * * Mr. Macknight seemed to me the only one to 
put the thing through ; the only thoroughly successful one. 
And strangely enough his compositions, though adequate and 
more subtle than they at first might appear to be, are not in 
themselves so inviting as some of the others. It is the way 
he has seen Nature, and the fact that he really has seen her, 
and the tremendously vital way in which he has suggested her, 
that make the value of his studies. 

Yes, the pictures here which I like best are by Dodge Mac- 
knight. Here is a man who actually gets true values in water 
colors — or let us say true effects. These blazing, glittering 
snow scenes fairly take your breath away. One has the shock 



76 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

which a cold bath gives — with the following sense of exhilara- 
tion. Here are things done absolutely without fear — with 
conviction. They are wholly personal. With many other 
exhibitors one says, "Ah, yes, Dutch school," or "Good old 
English," or "Neo-Japanesque" or what not? But Mr. Mac- 
knight fights for his own hand. Nothing was ever seen like 
his before. And they would not be so easy to caricature as 
one might think. 

It is hard to pick out the best of these for they are all full 
of go. "Winter Morning" is very good with its subtle and well- 
observed relation between the snow in the foreground and that 
of the middle distance. 

"Boy and Sled" is as unconventional as its title. It is 
seen and broadly rendered in an astonishing shorthand, so to 
say. 

"Autumn Leaves and Snow" is gorgeous with robin's egg 
sky, pinky orange bushes, and white snow, and "The Sand 
Dunes" is full of brilliancy and vitality. 

Mr. Macknight is one of the half-dozen artists of Boston 
whose work is most worth looking at. 

In October, 1902, an important exhibition under 
the auspices of the Black and White Club was held 
in Plymouth, Mass., where live many admirers of 
Macknight's work, notably Miss Mary G. Bartlett, 
who has never faltered in her allegiance to his art. 
There was a printed catalogue of the thirty subjects, 
which were from Cape Cod, Spain, and the Alps. 
Ten of them were lent by Denman Ross, and two by 
Joseph E. Chandler, and one by Miss Bartlett. 

1903 

In April, 1903, Messrs. Doll & Richards had their 
eleventh exhibition, composed of thirty pictures, all 
of Cape Cod subjects. Some of them were painted 
at North Truro. While the pictures were hanging, 
John S. Sargent spent some time in the gallery with 
Macknight and expressed himself as immensely 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 77 

pleased. It was the first time that the two painters 
had met. 

The proportion of snow pictures was greater than 
in any of his preceding exhibitions. The critic of 
the Herald wrote of these scenes: ". . . Beautiful 
expressions of the character of the sunny landscapes 
of Cape Cod, where the half southerly climate that 
brings a touch of the flora of lower latitudes into 
that part of New England likewise gives fleeting 
duration to ice and snow. This fact makes itself 
felt in various of these winter landscapes — the 
evanescence of the thin snow mantle, the quality 
of the underlying vegetation showing through. 

"In the picture called 'Cape Cod in Winter' this 
is expressed with exquisite tenderness, the green grass 
of a meadow just barely tinging the white surface." 

The critic of the Transcript found fault with some 
parts of the picture. He wrote: "His foregrounds 
are still disfigured occasionally by certain manner- 
isms which are perhaps unconscious, as, for example, 
the rough and apparently careless brush strokes 
employed to represent shrubbery, foliage, trees, grass, 
weeds, snags, etc. The trouble about these is not 
that they are unskillful, heavy, and seemingly reck- 
less, but that they draw attention unduly to methods, 
thus diverting the attention which should be given 
wholly to that subject-matter itself." 

There was one picture in this exhibition which 
will ever linger in the memory of the writer. It was 
No. 10, "My Lover, the Sea." It was painted at 
North Truro in 1902. On the right, the dunes 
stretched away into the distance. On the beach at 
the foot of the sand-cliffs, a transparent purple 
shadow follows the cliffs, and in this shadow little 
green plants are growing. The sea on the left rolls 



78 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

lazily upon the shore, turning over ribbons of reddish 
seaweed. The distant horizon fades into a pink 
mist out of which appears a white sail. A crimson- 
spotted plant hangs from the immediate foreground 
of the sand-cliffs. 

1904 

Messrs. Doll & Richards' "Twelfth Exhibition" 
was opened April 1, 1904. Twenty-nine pictures 
of Cape Cod subjects were shown: the Barnstable 
marshes, dunes, lupins, etc. 

THIRD VISIT TO SPAIN 

For four years the artist had devoted himself to 
painting the scenery of the Cape and he began to 
long for a change; Mrs. Macknight also wished 
to visit her parents in Valserres; accordingly, in 
May the family set sail. Macknight went to Spain, 
and visited Ronda, Granada, the Sierra Nevadas, and 
Orihuela. It was a painting tour and many beautiful 
subjects were secured for the next exhibition. The 
family returned in November. 

1905 

It was quite natural that the thirteenth Doll 
& Richards exhibition of March, 1905, should have 
been practically a Spanish exhibition. The title 
page read: "Spain, as seen by Dodge Macknight," 
followed by the lines: 

Si me pierdo, que me busquen 
Bajo el sol de Andalucia. 

Nine of the pictures were painted "In the Alpu- 
jarra," two at Granada, three at Ronda, eight 
"With Andalusian Gypsies," four in other places, and 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 79 

four New England snow landscapes were added to 
equalize the temperature. 

These pictures awakened a new spirit of interest 
and not a little excitement in art circles in Boston, 
and the papers came out in large headlines for their 
reviews. Miss Knowlton, who had written so many 
appreciations of the artist's work, sent the following 
lines to the Transcript : 

Dear Listener: — In color, two M's rule the town — Monet 
and Macknight. Every artist who takes palette in hand will 
set it with his brightest colors, even if his subject is a gray one. 

It is impossible not to be affected by such brilliant coloring 
as Macknight's. Spanish sunshine has told him its secret, 
and with characteristic fearlessness he has recorded what he 
has seen and felt. 

Monet! You may like him, or not; you can't let him alone; 
or rather, he can't let you alone. All his life long he has been 
digging for treasures, and he has opened a mine which must be 
taken in earnest. Tradition has not helped him at all; or 
perhaps it has shown him what to avoid that he may be true 
to the new light. 

Both of these men are discoverers, and great as their prog- 
ress has been, each in his own field, it is impossible to tell where 
they will finally arrive. Let us bow to honest conviction! 

H. M. K. 

A little later these pictures were exhibited in the 
Rhode Island School of Design in Providence. The 
prices of the water colors varied at this time from 
two hundred to two hundred and fifty dollars. 
Although the results of the third visit to Spain 
were particularly interesting, there was no great rush 
on the part of the public to secure the pictures. This 
was disheartening, but it only spurred the artist to 
greater efforts. During the summer of 1905, he 
visited Grand Manan, an island off the Maine Coast 
and near the Bay of Fundy, and there produced 



80 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

another of his remarkable series of pictures known 
as the Grand Manan series. 

1906 

In the early part of this year Macknight went to 
the Island of Jamaica for a few weeks to paint some 
pictures for his fourteenth Doll & Richards exhibi- 
tion, which was held in the month of April. There 
were seven subjects from Cape Cod, among which 
was "A Blizzard," quite a remarkable snow effect; 
twelve from the Bay of Fundy (Grand Manan) ; and 
eleven "Jamaica" (Montego Bay). 

The Grand Manan pictures were all of high rocky 
cliffs, around which the waters surged. The rocks 
were full of color and the ocean was in every case 
superbly painted. The Jamaica scenes represented 
sand beaches over which waved the royal palm, 
native huts, and long vistas filled with tropical vege- 
tation. 

The Grand Manan pictures are now nearly all 
owned by the writer and it came about in this way. 
On the opening day he was, in a bantering mood, 
charged with capturing the finest pictures in the 
show, leaving to others second choice, so he stated 
that he would make no selection until the close of 
the exhibition, when he secured all that were left 
of the Grand Manan series and later purchased 
others, so that he now has all but three. The writer 
also on the opening sent the following communica- 
tion to the Transcript, so that all might have fair 
show to obtain any of the pictures they particularly 
desired, but few seemed inclined to make selection 
and the result was not encouraging for the artist; 
the fact of the matter is that it is human nature to 
regard the pictures selected by others, as possessing 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 81 

peculiar merit, whereas in reality the finest may 
still remain. 

DODGE MACKNIGHT'S WATER-COLOR EXHIBITION 

1906 

To the Editor of the Transcript: Anyone who is fond of 
original and beautiful water colors will be glad to learn that 
Dodge Macknight has opened his annual exhibition at Doll 
& Richards', on Park Street. Here thirty examples of the 
master's art are hung around the walls of this well-known and 
attractive little gallery. The writer has for many years con- 
tended that Macknight possesses not only complete control 
over his medium, but has in the rendering of his subjects the 
same kind of appreciation of nature that characterizes the 
leaders of the plein-air school in France. He is no servile 
imitator, as anyone familiar with his works will acknowledge, 
but has the faculty of expressing in his own original way the 
joyous freshness of nature, the sparkle of sunlight, the charm 
of color in the shadows, and the movement of the wind, the 
clouds, and the sea. 

It seems to the writer that Mr. Macknight in this exhibi- 
tion has surpassed any of his previous attempts. His present 
work points strongly to ripening powers. The pictures are 
much more even in excellence; they are almost equally inter- 
esting from the point of view of composition, of color, and of 
drawing. The subjects, too, are wonderfully attractive and 
entice the visitor to linger and enjoy a little trip or two into 
lands more or less unfamiliar. A remarkable power, this, to 
be able to carry one far away from the noise and bustle of a 
great city to the serene quiet and heat of the tropics, or the 
exhilarating air of the North, where great cliffs jut out into 
the Atlantic. 

Of the thirty pictures shown, seven were painted on Cape 
Cod, twelve at Grand Manan on the Bay of Fundy, and eleven 
in Jamaica, from which Mr. Macknight has but just returned. 

The artist's beautiful rendering of snow effects is already 
familiar to Bostonians, so the writer will not dwell upon these 
subjects. Grand Manan is less familiar to the average lay- 
man, and we naturally turn to the peculiar and remarkable 
rendering of these wave-washed cliffs. Directly in front of 



82 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

the visitor, as he enters the gallery, is a noble group of six of 
these pictures. The topography is quite similar, but the treat- 
ment is quite different; here we have a gigantic cliff eroded by 
the ocean into enormous buttresses, which stretch out like 
great arms into the sea, all bathed in the bright sunshine of 
the early morning, which plays upon the vivid colors of the 
vegetation and the almost as brilliant colors of the rocks. 
Here by its side we have the same scene clouded in rising mists 
with the horizon wholly obscured ; and here we have another 
point of towering cliffs wrapped in the darker shadows of the 
early twilight. It is seldom that one will find the ceaseless 
surging of the waves depicted with more characteristic variety 
than in these charming water colors, and they are all so even in 
quality that it is difficult to make a selection; one wishes to 
possess the whole. 

In other parts of the gallery are the Jamaica pictures. In 
these the effects of the hot and brilliant light are so vividly 
depicted that we are inclined at first glance, almost following a 
matter of habit, to close the eyelids slightly in order to accus- 
tom the eyes to the strong light. The writer has never seen 
pictures which brought more vividly to mind the jewel-like 
colors of tropical vegetation. 

In these water colors we have sandy beaches over which the 
lordly palm towers, or upon which the native boats are drawn 
in graceful lines, acting as foils for delicate distances; we have 
a few simple native huts stretching out into the water and 
drawn with bold and skillful touch against the bright waters of 
the bay; we have the gaily-colored village streets with their 
brilliant rows of houses and their winding lines, carrying the 
eye to distant boundaries of sky or sea. 

Happy the possessor of one of these charming pictures; it 
will raise his mind above the troubles of the world and carry 
him out into the open air, where, in imagination, he can feel 
the stimulating influence of a real chat with nature. 

Desmond FitzGerald. 
Brookline, April 26, 1906. 

Soon after this exhibition the artist made his first 
trip to Newfoundland. He found an interesting 
fishing village on the easterly coast, Torbay, and 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 83 

remained there until October, painting many charm- 
ing pictures of fishermen's houses, boats lying upon 
the beach or dancing in the distance on the dazzling 
water. 

1907 

In February, 1907, the St. Botolph Club offered 
Mr. Macknight the use of its gallery and his annual 
exhibition took place there. Fifty pictures were 
collected, of which twenty-one were lent by Dr. 
Ross and the writer; of the remainder, eleven were 
Newfoundland (Torbay) subjects, and the rest mis- 
cellaneous, but principally of Cape Cod. The New- 
foundland pictures did not turn out to be great 
favorites with the buying public, largely, the writer 
believes, on account of the strangeness of the com- 
positions. The Herald critic wrote: "But New- 
foundland seems an unpropitious land for the artist, 
a land of wharves and gloomy shores." From this 
exhibition nine pictures were sold, which, on the 
whole, was encouraging. 

Miss Helen M. Knowlton, the author of Hunt's 
"Talks on Art," quoted an admirer of Macknight's 
as saying, on leaving the gallery: "Those water 
colors in the black frames are yelling with color." 
Her own verdict was, "They are like a case of jewels." 
It was from this exhibition that the Museum of 
Fine Arts purchased its first Macknight. 

Mr. Philip L. Hale in the Herald wrote: 

What one feels most strongly about his work is that is 
supremely artistic. One cannot know the man or his work 
well without being quite convinced of this. . . . The 
special wonder about Dodge Macknight and his paintings, 
sheets of water-color paper daubed with what to the general 
eye looks like exaggerated hen tracks, is that with so few and 
so simple dabs and washes, he tells the whole stcty cf the 



84 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

topography of the region, and with infinite detail, nicety, and 
accuracy, too, and then bathes it all in the light of a mood, the 
appropriate hue of a sentiment, until for those who love 
such things, what seems at first almost insolent, wanton 
trifling becomes suffused with a certain undeniable richness 
and significance. One only knows that the rhapsody is a Mac- 
knight that you really like, that makes most other paintings 
cold and dull. 

The Advertiser critic: 

. . . Although Dodge Macknight is still one of the rad- 
icals, he is no longer looked upon as a color maniac. 

The critic of the Transcript roused the writer to the 
sending of a letter in response. The following 
article was the immediate result: 

DODGE MACKNIGHT'S WATER COLORS 

We have received from Mr. Desmond FitzGerald of Brook- 
line a letter in relation to the exhibition of water colors by 
Dodge Macknight at the St. Botolph Club gallery. Mr. 
FitzGerald writes: 

"The work as a whole is most inspiring. The writer believes 
that a careful study of Mr. Macknight's art will show a steady 
advance in his power to glean from Nature some of her most 
charming effects. The range of subjects in the exhibition is 
most interesting; it extends from subtle studies on the Cape 
to the novel coast scenery of Newfoundland. On one hand 
we have a dazzling flood of sunshine in Granada or Ronda, 
and on the other some wonderfully delicate suggestion like that 
of the 'Purple Brook' from Dr. Ross's collection. This pic- 
ture, by the way, was painted, if the writer is not mistaken, 
in the high Alps. It is a consummation of technical power 
combined with an extraordinary ability to see what the awak- 
ening touch of Spring can at times offer us, if we can but open 
our minds to her handiwork. It is always a genuine enjoy- 
ment to find a landscape artist who enters into all of the vary- 
ing phases of nature; who can feel equally the charm of a mist, 
the soft beauty of a snowstorm, the rugged outlines of a cliff, 
the dancing water, or the simple charm of an ordinary New 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 85 

England landscape. Such an artist is Mr. Macknight, and 
long after his hand shall have failed to interpret nature for our 
admiration, his pictures will continue to be a source of inspira- 
tion and delight. One of the great charms of these pictures 
arises from the remarkable technique which enables the artist 
to place his colors with directness and purity upon the paper. 
There is such sureness of touch that the results are produced 
with apparently little effort. To this we owe a certain crisp- 
ness and joyous freshness, and with these qualities too we have 
harmony of tones and colors most gratifying to the eye. In 
Mr. Macknight's work, while there is always great original- 
ity, and sometimes a just disregard of the ordinary ideas of 
composition which is refreshing, there is never anything savor- 
ing of 'brutality.' Brutality may arise from a choice of vulgar 
subjects, from dirty color, lack of atmosphere, bad drawing, 
or a hundred other causes; but the writer firmly believes that 
these pictures are the opposites of brutal, that they really 
portray the most poetical side of nature, that they are true 
symphonies in color values, and that they appeal to highly 
cultivated tastes; and in this view we have the concurring 
testimony of many of the most advanced students of nature, 
both from the artist class and also from keen observers on the 
great layman side." 

The part of Mr. FitzGerald's letter which concerns 
"brutality" is a reply to what was written in these columns 
about Mr. Macknight's works. "Brutality," Mr. FitzGerald 
holds, "may arise from a choice of vulgar subjects, from dirty 
color, lack of atmosphere, bad drawing, or a hundred other 
causes." Possibly; but the brutality which we had in mind 
when we commented on Mr. Macknight's work has its source 
farther back, deeper down, and has little to do with choice of 
subject. It is temperamental. Moreover, it often goes with 
a certain kind of virile power, as in Mr. Macknight's case. 
Indeed it is quite possible that a certain brutality goes with 
a certain poetical quality too. Mr. Macknight has the merits 
of his defects in an eminent degree. Criticism has given per- 
haps a special significance to this term "brutality." We used 
it in that sense, without imputing to the painter any sin for 
being what he is, a man who sacrifices many of the refinements, 
graces, and amenities of pictorial art to sheer power and 



86 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

brilliancy. But of course we do not expect Mr. FitzGerald 
to agree with our opinion, for he can see no defect in Mr, 
Macknight's pictures. 

In November, 1907, the Century Club of Boston 
invited the writer to give an exhibition of some of his 
Macknight pictures at the rooms of the Club on Joy 
Street. Fifty pictures were hung and opened to the 
the public between November 26 and December 13. 
The subjects were of Cape Cod and Grand Manan 
and excited much favorable interest. 

In the summer of 1907 Macknight made his first 
visit to Mexico and returned with a series of pictures 
painted in Cordoba and Amatlan. 

1908 

In March, 1908, Messrs. Doll & Richards opened 
their fifteenth exhibition at 71 Newbury Street, 
Boston, the firm having moved their galleries from 
2 Park Street. There were fifteen Mexican pic- 
tures, "The Tropics," six Cape Cod "New England" 
pictures, and nine "Newfoundland" pictures. This 
was by far the most successful of any of the previous 
exhibitions. Fourteen pictures were sold at prices 
varying from two hundred to two hundred and 
fifty dollars. On the opening day eight pictures 
were sold. The Mexican scenes were very brilliant; 
they represented native huts buried in a wealth of 
tropical foliage, streets covered by brilliant shadows, 
villages with volcanoes in the distance and blue trees 
and scarlet hibiscus flowers growing in luxuriance 
by the wayside. No. 20, "Looking for a Shot," pur- 
chased by Mr. George P. Gardner, was one of the 
best of the artist's snow subjects on the Cape. It 
represented a hunter crouching on the frozen marshes, 
surrounded by a wilderness of ice and snow, and 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 87 

waiting for the birds. No. 22, painted at Grand 
Manan and purchased by Mrs. J. Montgomery 
Sears, represented the broad and open sea bounded 
only by the horizon, but such wonderful water had 
never been seen. 

During the year a second trip to Mexico was 
undertaken and a new country around Cuautla 
visited. About thirty pictures were brought back 
from that tropical land. 

In the winter Macknight went to Shelburne, New 
Hampshire, for the first time and started his series of 
White Mountain snow pictures, which have been the 
delight of all beholders. People say that they have 
never seen such snow pictures, and each seems to 
surpass the last. 

1909 

After the holidays of the preceding year, Mac- 
knight returned to Shelburne, and continued work 
on his snow subjects. The sixteenth Doll & 
Richards' exhibition opened in March, 1909. There 
were three, "Cape Cod," four "White Mountain," 
four "Newfoundland," and nineteen pictures from 
"The Tropics." All of the snow pictures were sold, 
showing the high appreciation in which they were 
held; five of the tropical scenes also were sold. 
The writer, quite by accident, had the honor of pur- 
chasing the first of the snow pictures from the 
White Mountains, No. 4 of the catalogue. 

After the close of the exhibition the artist returned 
to Shelburne for a fortnight, and in the summer 
made a second visit to Newfoundland. 

At this time Macknight visited a wild region of 
stormy shore with grand cliffs, in the vicinity of 
Flat Rock on the easterly shore not far from St. John. 



88 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

When the pictures were brought back to Boston, the 
writer agreed to purchase the whole collection on the 
condition that the artist should return at once to 
Shelburne and paint a sufficient number of pictures 
to insure an exhibition as usual in the following 
spring. This plan was carried out and the artist 
remained with the snow for four months, bringing 
back a fine lot of studies in the spring. The New- 
foundland pictures were very fine. A group of them 
was shown at the Art Museum, and later at the St. 
Botolph Club a collection of six was lent for the 
exhibition of 1912. 

1910 

The writer had the pleasure of visiting Macknight 
while he was painting his snow effects in February, 
in the White Mountains. He had developed a 
small house which could be moved by two men 
from place to place as desired by the artist. 
There are many difficulties in painting water colors 
in low temperatures on account of freezing of the 
water, condensation on windows, etc. These were 
partially overcome by the construction of a hut, 
five and one-half feet high, three feet wide, with a 
window through which the artist was obliged to 
crawl; then the window could be regulated at any 
height desired. Some heat was obtained by means 
of a kerosene stove in a small annex. The house 
could be picked up by means of handles on the out- 
side. This proved an excellent contrivance and 
enabled the artist to paint under the most adverse 
conditions, in the heart of the woods or in positions 
commanding magnificent views of the mountains. 
We used snowshoes in traveling. Mrs. Macknight 
accompanied her husband occasionally on these trips. 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 89 

With two feet of snow on the ground, the country in 
the vicinity of Philbrook Farm affords an unlimited 
number of attractive snow subjects. 

In April, 1910, Messrs. Doll & Richards held their 
seventeenth exhibition of Macknight's water colors, 
composed largely of snow pictures, with a sprinkling 
of Spain, Jamaica, Newfoundland, Cape Cod, and 
Mexico. The exhibition was successful 

Mrs. Macknight and her son went abroad in the 
summer; so the artist remained in Sandwich until 
November, when he went to the White Mountains 
for a four months sojourn, painting many beautiful 
snow pictures. 

1911 

In March Macknight returned from the White 
Mountains, and in April his eighteenth exhibition 
at the gallery of Doll & Richards took place. It 
was composed of twenty snow pictures and nine of a 
miscellaneous character: two Spanish, two Cape Cod, 
two Mexican and three Newfoundland subjects. 
There is no doubt that a marked change had taken 
place in the appreciation of the artist's work by those 
who are in the habit of acquiring works of art. As 
illustrating this change, it may be mentioned that 
among the pictures sold from this exhibition was 
No. 1, "Market Day, Andalusia," for which three 
hundred and fifty dollars was paid. It was the same 
picture that was shown in 1894 at the St. Botolph 
Club and there catalogued as No. 10, "The Crockery 
Stand," and for which one hundred dollars was asked. 
It found no buyer at that price, seventeen years pre- 
viously. 

In the winter Macknight made his third trip to 
Mexico, visiting Coatepec, where he painted a num- 
ber of tropical pictures. 



90 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

1912 

The artist returned from Mexico in February, and 
in March an exhibition of his works was held at the 
St. Botolph Club gallery; it was by far the most 
successful of all of his exhibitions, the gallery being 
well filled with admirers and purchasers. Out of this 
exhibition eighteen pictures were sold. At this 
exhibition, the third held in that place, forty-six 
pictures were shown, of which fifteen were lent. The 
prices of some of the pictures reached for the first 
time four hundred dollars. 

The following are among the notices in the daily 
newspapers : 

Transcript, March 22, IQI2. 

MACKNIGHT'S LANDSCAPES 

HIS COLLECTION OF FORTY-SIX WATER COLORS AT THE ST. BOTOLPH 

CLUB GALLERY ONE OF THE MOST BRILLIANT DISPLAYS 

OF COLOR AND LIGHT HE HAS EVER MADE 

Although the darkness of the stormy day, together with the 
snow that covered the skylight, made artificial lights neces- 
sary at the private view of the Dodge Macknight exhibition 
of water colors yesterday afternoon at the gallery of the St. 
Botolph Club, Newbury Street, not even these disadvantages 
could altogether dim the effulgence of his brilliant and glow- 
ing color and the luminosity of his almost dazzling sunlight; 
for, as had been anticipated, the collection is among the most 
notable ever brought together by the artist. The forty-six 
water colors, comprising landscapes painted last winter in 
Southern Mexico, and others painted several years ago in 
Newfoundland but never before exhibited, with many strik- 
ing winter scenes in the White Mountains and on Cape Cod, 
have been so classified in the arrangement of the gallery as to 
form geographical groups. The group of six Newfoundland 
subjects at the right of the door, lent by Desmond FitzGerald, 
are new to the public ; and other fine examples are lent by Mrs. 
J. Montgomery Sears, Miss Helen Sears, George P. Gardner, 
and Dr. Denman W. Ross. 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 91 

The Mexican pictures are massed on the south wall, oppo- 
site the entrance. They constitute the latest phase of the 
development of Mr. Macknight's art. In that tropical region, 
with its rankly luxuriant vegetation, and its blazing sunlight 
falling in floods upon the red earth, he has let himself go with 
an abandon that can be imagined by those who know his pas- 
sion for color. The richness and depth of the greens in his 
Mexican landscapes can hardly be described; and he has 
handled the problem of red tones in the foregrounds with 
unprecedented candor and audacity, so that these works may 
be said to produce an absolutely novel sensation. Few of the 
Mexican motives have skies in them, but the exceptions, 
including two beautiful views in the southwest corner which 
bring in the peak of Orizaba in the distance, are enough to 
show that the question of sky or no sky is simply a matter of 
personal choice and not of incapacity or indifference. One is 
given in this whole series a wonderful realization of the local 
color and atmosphere of tropical Mexico, a country of marvels 
in the way of color, which needs just such a fearless and un- 
prejudiced painter as Macknight to do it justice. 

The Newfoundland pieces from Mr. FitzGerald's collection 
strike another note with the same mastery and freedom. 
They depict the bold, rocky coast of that island, with the great 
seas breaking at the feet of the lofty and grand cliffs. Their 
forms are drawn in an authoritative way; and the largeness 
and grandeur of the subjects are interpreted with splendid 
vigor and power. 

But there is no class of subjects that Mr. Macknight deals 
with more triumphantly than the winter landscapes of north- 
ern New Hampshire, and his snow-covered hills of Shelburne, 
with their frosty, dry, keen air and their intense naturalism, 
so vivid that it almost makes the blood tingle in the veins of 
the observer, are as marvelous in their reality as anything in 
the way of a picture can well be. The breadth and decision 
with which he gets his effects are unexcelled. Nothing but 
the essentials is given ; there is not a superfluous stroke of the 
brush. The impression is, however, complete and final. The 
beauty is the beauty of nature itself; there is no addition to 
it, and no commentary upon it. The personality of the artist 
is submerged in the subject. Those who see as well as look 



92 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

are transported bodily to the place and, so to say, left to 
themselves. 

Herald, March 22, 1912. 

RARE BEAUTY IN WATER COLORS 

EXHIBITION OF FORTY-SIX PICTURES BY DODGE MACKNIGHT OPENS 
AT ST. BOTOLPH CLUB 

An exhibition of water colors by Dodge Macknight, one of 
the most brilliant that he has ever shown, was opened with a 
private view yesterday afternoon at the St. Botolph Club, 
Newbury Street. Mr. Macknight shows a power of vigorous 
expression, and an originality that amounts to nothing short 
of genius. Yet often as his work has been seen in Boston — 
and he has exhibited here continuously for twenty-five years 
— -it always strikes the observer with a sense of surprise. 

The present exhibition of forty-six pictures represents, in 
the series from Mexico painted early in the winter and more 
recent snow scenes, the artist's very latest work. The Mexi- 
can pictures, of which there are about a dozen, represent a 
distinct achievement in the matter of rendering the incredi- 
bly brilliant coloring of the tropics under the dazzling sun of 
that latitude. Some of the mountain roads and tropical lanes, 
with their brightly clad figures seen in sunlight or in shadow 
down long vistas of yellow-green leafage, are particularly 
striking. 

Six coast views from Newfoundland, belonging to Desmond 
FitzGerald, are no less brilliant in their way; as renderings of 
rocks in sunshine, purple-brown and jagged, the sparkling 
blue-green sea water washing around or across them, they are 
scarcely inferior to Monet's famous treatments of similar sub- 
jects. A group of spendid autumnal landscapes from Cape 
Cod likewise fill the spectator with admiration. 

But it is after all in his snow landscapes that Mr. Mac- 
knight is most appealing. Who else has given the life of the 
New England winter with such graphic directness? There is 
the famous "Hunter," with a new masterpiece, "Out for Exer- 
cise," to match it. The "Road Through the Birches" is a 
superb bit of color, and "Glacial Gully" is remarkable for its 
originality of design and treatment. One picture that must 
strike everyone as outshining all the rest in every quality that 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 93 

makes Mr. Macknight's art distinctive is the one called "Blue 
Shadows," a painting of astonishing carrying power, splendid 
in its power of brilliant and truthful suggestion.* 

The exhibition of 1912 at the St. Botolph Club 
resulted in convincing a considerable number of 
persons in Boston, interested in art, that Macknight 
had in him the true elements for success: undoubted 
talents united to perseverance and industry and 
good staying powers. 

On June 29th a kind of symposium was held at 
Spring Hill, the old name for the neighborhood at 
East Sandwich where Mr. Macknight resides. This 
little gathering was held under the auspices of the 
"Black and White Club" of Plymouth. Tables 
were spread under a large apple tree on Mr. Mac- 
knight's place and after a feast, the meeting ad- 
journed to the artist's studio, where an exhibition of 
his works was held. 

During the remainder of the year Macknight was 
engaged in improving his home and grounds. The 
old house was attractive and delightfully situated, 
but devoid of modern conveniences which have done 
so much to add to the comforts of life. As there was 
no public water service, it was necessary to intro- 
duce a private source under sufficient head to supply 
the house by gravity. A hot water heating system 
was added and an ell built to provide a new and con- 
venient kitchen. All of this work kept the artist 
from wandering far from home. 

There were many discouragements in connection 
with this work; the sinking of an artesian well through 
the hill back of the house, and down to the perma- 
nent water level, was most stupidly and unnecessarily 

* This picture was No. 14 in the exhibition and now hangs in the gallery of the writer 
in Brookline. It has been much admired and has been desired by several collectors, not 
excepting one prominent art museum. 



94 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

delayed from a period which should have meant 
only a few days, to many weeks; but at last peace 
reigned, all of the work was successfully carried out, 
and in the early winter Mr. Macknight departed 
for Shelburne to paint his snow pictures. 

1913 

On March 21 Messrs. Doll & Richards held their 
nineteenth exhibition. There were seven Mexican 
pictures, eleven of snow, nine of Cape Cod, and one 
of Grand Manan. All were priced at four hundred 
dollars and twelve were sold. 

In September the artist started on an unusual 
expedition. He had read some descriptions of the 
painted cliffs of Utah which excited his interest, and 
after many arrangements he resolved to paint some 
of the scenery in the famous Mukuntuweap Canyon, 
on Zion's Creek, one of the sources of the Virgin 
River. This canyon had recently been acquired by 
the government as a national monument. In order 
to reach this isolated region it was necessary to spend 
two days in crossing a desert and to camp out while 
in the canyon. The fare consisted of bacon, pota- 
toes, and onions. 

The wonderful scenery, however, rewarded the 
artist for all his hardships. The canyon is about 
eight miles in length and it is formed of precipitous 
cliffs, several thousands of feet in height and com- 
posed of brilliant red sandstone capped with white 
sandstone which has the appearance of snow. It 
was once the home of cliff-dwellers. The majority 
of these pictures represented the westerly side of the 
canyon, where the country is more broken than on 
the east and more majestic. Just before the walls 
of the canyon approach each other, there are three 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 95 

remarkable peaks visible from the road on the east- 
erly side of the stream. These peaks form very 
picturesque objects. From this region Macknight 
returned in November with about thirty-six beauti- 
ful water colors. 

1914 

On February 10, 1914, the writer visited Mr. 
Macknight at his winter retreat in Shelburne, but as 
the temperature was -22° F. there was no painting 
during the visit, only a little snowshoeing, with a 
frozen foot under three pair of woolen stockings for 
the writer. It was on this occasion that the artist, 
usually so chary of his opinions, broke out with a 
vehement tribute to the art of the Japanese. Un- 
known to the artist, and while he was gazing from the 
window, the writer made a few notes of the explo- 
sion and marked well the very words and expressions 
of the conversation, retiring at the first cessation 
of hostilities to write it all out. 

On Wednesday, February 11, the large Boston 
party staying at the Philbrooks' started on a sleigh- 
ing trip, leaving Macknight and the writer alone in 
the house, which suddenly became very quiet. The 
weather was too cold to paint and matters were 
going rather slowly. After lunch Macknight sud- 
denly turned to the writer and said: "Would you 
like to look at some pictures to pass away the time?" 
"Certainly," was the response. He then led the 
way upstairs to his room. About a dozen pictures 
were exhibited; the first was of a pool, long and nar- 
row, with beautiful reflected colors, on the right was 
a high snowbank with an evergreen branch*; then 
came a series painted in the village of Shelburne 
across the river, including red and yellow houses. 

♦Now in Mrs. Gardner's Museum. 



96 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

When the writer had seen them twice and conver- 
sation flagged, Macknight suddenly blurted out, 
"The Japanese are really the only fellows who know 
how to paint nature," and after a pause he added, 
"They have all the rest of us beaten out of the game. 
There is nothing in the landscape painters of the 
present day at all." Then he stepped to the window 
and looked out at the distant mountains. The 
writer pulled himself together and answered meekly, 
"Do you mean to include all the landscape painters?" 
He turned, lowering one shoulder a little, and rammed 
his hands into his pockets. "Oh yes! there is noth- 
ing at all in what we're doing." Then pausing a 
moment as if to consider his words, he added, "Most 
of us try to copy nature! You can't do that. It is 
the idea or sentiment of the scene that you have got 
to express! It is the personality of the artist that 
counts. The trouble with us is, we haven't any per- 
sonality to put into the work." "How about the 
Chinese?" the writer asked, thinking of Sung and 
Ming pictures. But he refused to be diverted, and 
added that he was at that moment thinking of Hiro- 
shiges' snow pictures which he had seen in San Fran- 
cisco. "This man did not attempt to copy nature, it 
was the idea in the landscape which he has given us." 
"I went into a Jap shop and bought one." "Gee! 
that's the stuff." "These fellows know how to make 
figures keep their place." "They get their effects 
by suppressing the blacks, keeping the strong tones 
lighter, and leaving out unimportant details." "The 
present day painters put in too much ; they don't know 
how to leave out." The writer then sounded him on 
how he looked at nature. He responded, "As a rule 
when we look at nature, we don't look at the fore- 
ground, we concentrate our attention on the middle 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 97 

distance; the foreground is blurred, so is the dis- 
tance. We should therefore paint the important 
parts of the middle distance carefully." Turning to 
one of his pictures on the floor, he said: "I have been 
studying for years how to paint snowflakes; I do it 
in the middle distance by painting them against 
some dark object; the Japs put them in the sky 
above the scene." 

The writer then called his attention to another of 
his pictures containing a representation of the bank 
of a river on the left, with a great root of a tree 
overhanging the stream. In this picture, the deep 
shadow of the root was most carefully painted, while 
the misty river stretched away to the right. "Well! 
we don't always practise what we preach. Those 
Japs," he added, pursing up his lips as if to whistle, 
"were great men; their compositions were beautiful 
and every part of their pictures was beautiful. Go 
to the museum and make them hand out some of 
their snow pictures and study them." 

The writer did not at this time venture to call 
attention to the personality in the Japanese prints 
which is a combination of three personalities: the 
man who makes the original drawing, the man who 
cuts it out on the block, and the color man who 
designs the system of colors which is the finishing 
glory of the product. This may be reserved for some 
future occasion. 

On March 27, 1914, the twentieth Doll & Richards 
exhibition opened in Boston. There were thirty 
pictures, and although all were catalogued under the 
head, "In the Canyons of Utah," about a dozen were 
snow and Cape scenes. One of the most beautiful 
of the snow scenes, No. 25, called "Mist," was pur- 
chased by the writer, but relinquished to a friend 



98 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

who desired its possession. It was finally captured 
by a third person and now hangs in a house in 
Beacon Street. 

This incident is narrated to illustrate the growing 
desire in Boston to own "Macknights". Twenty- 
two pictures were sold. 

The Mukuntuweap canyon of the Virgin River is 
composed principally of very brilliant red sand- 
stone. Fortunately for the truth of the paintings, 
some Bostonians had just returned from the southern 
part of Utah, and they not only verified the bril- 
liancy of the coloring, but stated further that .they 
had been unable to find colors sufficiently brilliant 
to represent the scenery. 

The summer of 1914 was passed by Macknight at 
Sandwich, largely occupied with his garden, the 
improvement of his grounds, and in preparation for a 
trip to the Grand Canyon of the Colorado. 

On August 27 the artist, accompanied by his son, 
left Sandwich for this expedition. The original plan 
had been to visit the northerly side of the Canyon, 
which is wilder and more picturesque, and about one 
thousand feet higher than the southern rim; but cir- 
cumstances favored a change in the plan. After 
reaching El Tovar by train, an arrangement was 
made to camp out on the rim of the canyon at 
Bass Camp, westerly from El Tovar, and from this 
point several beautiful pictures were painted; but 
owing to the illness of the housekeeper it became 
necessary to seek a new situation. About nine pic- 
tures were painted from Bass Camp — and all but 
two or three of them on paper of a different size from 
practically all of his previous water colors. While 
painting among the Virgin River cliffs in Utah the 
preceding year, Macknight felt the desirability of 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 99 

increasing the vertical dimension of his pictures, 
and at Bass Camp the larger part of his pictures 
were painted on paper 1834" x 2234" — m other 
words the height of his pictures was increased 
three inches; and this height was used in the sub- 
sequent pictures painted at Grand View, and also 
in 1915 at Buckskin Mountain, Kanab, on the 
northerly rim of the Grand Canyon, and in 1916 in 
some flower pictures at Sandwich. 

In one of the Bass Camp pictures the figure of 
his son John was introduced, standing on the edge of 
the precipice and looking into the depths of the 
canyon. Others were generally devoid of fore- 
grounds, and some of them with green trees on the 
right showed the strong feature of the "Scenic 
Divide," so-called. 

From Bass Camp Mr. Macknight went to Grand 
View, near the head of a small canyon which is east- 
erly of El Tovar, and there the artist found superb 
subjects with good foregrounds. He lived at the 
small hotel and had none of the cares of housekeep- 
ing, so that he could paint all day. The result was 
that he painted twice as many pictures as at Bass 
Camp. Some of the finest represented a distance 
of one hundred and twenty-five miles. 

After completing his work, Mr. Macknight went 
to California to visit a brother who was ill and 
remained with him several weeks. 

The winter of 1914-15 was passed at Shelburne, 
New Hampshire, for the purpose of painting snow 
pictures, for which there was a constant demand. 

1915 

On March 25th Messrs. Doll & Richards, New- 
bury Street, opened their twenty-first exhibition of 



100 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

the artist's works. Of the thirty-two pictures exhi- 
bited, four were Cape Code subjects, two New- 
foundland, three Mexican, seven snow, two Utah, 
and fourteen of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado. 
The latter were, of course, the leading feature of the 
exhibition. Never before had such remarkable pic- 
tures been seen of that great wonderland of Arizona. 

At the private view on the day before the opening, 
eleven pictures were sold. 

During the summer Macknight resolved to visit 
the northerly rim of the Grand Canyon of the 
Colorado in the Kanab country, which is wild and 
almost inaccessible, but much more broken and pic- 
turesque than the southerly side, which is so gen- 
erally approached from El Tovar. This expedition, 
which was to be taken alone, required more study and 
preparation than any previous undertaking of this 
kind. Maps, government articles, and authorities 
had to be consulted, and finally individuals had to be 
engaged to furnish the necessary outfit and to have it 
all ready at Kanab by a certain date. 

On August 9th the artist left East Sandwich for 
his long journey. On arriving at Salt Lake City, a 
narrow gauge railroad was taken to Marysvale, and 
the next morning a mail auto-car to Panguitch 
took him for several days' journey, via Panguitch, 
Hatchville, and Mt. Carmel, to Kanab near the 
Grand Canyon, the last outpost of civilization, and 
almost at the southerly boundary of Utah. Here a 
wagon, teamster, and supplies were procured and a 
start made for Buckskin Mountain, the site of a 
great national forest preserve on the northerly rim 
of the Grand Canyon. More than three days more 
were occupied in reaching the first site for a camp. 
After a variety of accidents, in one of which the 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 101 

wagon was capsized and had a narrow escape from 
destruction, camp was pitched on the edge of the 
forest about a mile from the canyon. The altitude 
of this northerly rim is more than 1,000 feet higher 
than the southerly rim at El Tovar; it is more than 
8,000 feet above the sea, and the climate is entirely 
different, being colder and with mountain charac- 
teristics. There is much more rain, hail, and snow; 
in other words, it is far more rigorous. 

In one of Mr. Macknight's pictures exhibited in 
1916, there was a view of his first camp, which is 
now owned by the writer. One of the bitter disap- 
pointments of this first camp was the loss of the 
horses; both disappeared, although hobbled, and 
they were not found for several days. In the course 
of the search, two wandering horses were captured 
and used until the old ones were recovered. One 
of the great discomforts of the trip was the lack 
of water. It became necessary to drive the horses 
several miles to water and two barrels were brought 
back to camp, one for the horses and the other for 
camp purposes. 

In connection with this solitary life, however, 
there were great compensations. There were no 
engagements nor distractions, so that the artist had 
abundant time to paint; in fact he painted eight 
hours every day, and brought back "a bale" of 
pictures. Some of Macknight's letters were very 
interesting. He described his life as simple in the 
extreme. His one daily meal consisted of fried 
potatoes and boiled beans; his bed was made of 
balsam boughs. When he left, the hailstones were 
as large as marbles and there was frost every night. 
The following paragraph is taken from one of his 
letters: 



102 DODGE MACKNIGHT 

"Gee! when I think of you people living at Rub- 
banec,* surrounded by flowers, eating fruit and vege- 
tables, and sleeping in beds, tears as big as snowballs 
drop kerplunk from my eyes. Boo-hoo! I want 
to go home." 

From the Grand Canyon Mr. Macknight came 
out by Kanab, and went again to California to see his 
brother, by way of Lund, a terrible route of one hun- 
dred and twenty miles in the course of which he 
spent sixteen hours in an automobile which was 
nearly wrecked in crossing streams. On October 28 
he returned to East Sandwich with thirty-eight pic- 
tures and the writer hastened to see them. They 
generally represented the scenery from two points 
of view, looking to the southeast and to the west. 

The winter of 1915-16 was again passed in Shel- 
burne, New Hampshire. 

1916 

On March 17th Messrs. Doll & Richards opened 
their twenty-second exhibition. i\lthough the prices 
of all the pictures in the exhibition were advanced to 
four hundred and fifty dollars for the first time, the 
sale was among the largest that had ever taken place. 
There were twenty-one pictures of the Grand Can- 
yon, three Mexican (volcanoes), and six snow pic- 
tures. Notwithstanding the increase in price, fifteen 
were sold at the end of the third day and twenty- 
two in all. 

On May 7th John S. Sargent, the distinguished 
artist, visited Macknight at his studio in Sandwich 
and spent a portion of the afternoon looking at his 
pictures. A few days previously he had visited the 
gallery of the writer and spent some time over the 

* Rubbanec is the humorous name the artist has given to his place in Sandwich, on 
account of the way people turn to look at his tall hedge as they pass. 



WATER COLOR PAINTER 103 

Macknight pictures there exhibited, showing much 
interest and admiration for them. Among them was 
a picture which Mr. Sargent had selected for a friend 
in 1889 from one of the exhibitions (a charming 
pastel) and which finally came into the writer's col- 
lection. 

In the early summer, Macknight painted four 
pictures of flowers in his garden. They were of the 
increased height. In August Mr. and Mrs. Mac- 
knight made a trip to Nova Scotia to see their only 
child, John, who had enlisted for the great war and 
was in training at a military camp. He was taking 
his examinations for a lieutenancy in a Canadian 
regiment. It is expected that he will sail soon for 
England (September). Macknight says that in a 
few days he intends to begin painting a series of 
Cape pictures and will start at Sandy Neck, Barn- 
stable. 



APPENDIX 



PUBLISHED LETTERS 
ABRIDGED HISTORY 

AND 

TABLE OF "EXHIBITIONS" 



PUBLISHED LETTERS 



(Boston Evening Transcript, January 28, 1893) 

AT THE BULL FIGHT 

An Impressionist in Spain — The Popular Feast of 
Blood in Honor of the Virgin's Birthday 

* * * let us to-day hie ourselves to Murcia and see what 
there will be in the way of gore. The blood of horses and 
of bulls we shall certainly feast our eyes upon, and if we are 
exceptionally lucky we can revel in the sight of human gore. 

So here's the train; let us get in and take an hour's ride. If 
we get tired of being seated we can jump out and run along 
by the side of the locomotive to rest ourselves. 

The car, divided up by low partitions into a poor sort of 
cattle car, contains some fifty occupants, mostly peasants 
from neighboring villages, all bound for the bull fight and 
running over with joy. In the exuberance of their glee they 
lean out of the windows and salute the loiterers at the way 
stations with yells of derision and insults of doubtful taste. 
As a result of this wordy war, tomatoes and bunches of grapes 
whang and spatter against the car as we slowly pass by. One 
gentleman, at the end of a copious repast of watermelon, 
fires the remains out of the window so skillfully that they 
slop over the face and hat of a spectator, and the villain is 
so tickled that he doesn't stop laughing till we get to Murcia. 

There is extraordinary animation in the town. The annual 
fair is in full force. Tartanas rattle by; the streets are full 
of men on horses, mules, and burros, laden with all sorts of 
things from guitars to babies, and the sidewalks are crowded 
with men, women, and children talking loudly and gesticulat- 
ing frantically. We at once feel that we are in a foreign land, 
for here is a little child running about entirely naked by the 
side of its mother, who is washing clothes in a hole in the side- 
walk, and not far away a crowd surrounds two children play- 
ing the guitar and singing the melancholy refrain of the Mala- 
guena. 

The costumes are a strange mixture. In this vile fin de 
sihle that the French pessimists are so fond of talking about, 



108 APPENDIX 

everything Spanish, national, is being slowly snowed under 
by German and English cheap-clothing fiends. 

What remains are but spars from the wreck. The city-born 
people were done for long ago ; if we still wish to see costumes 
of interest we must keep on the watch for peasants. Look! 
here comes a dusky maiden in crinoline skirts of vermilion 
and emerald green in horizontal stripe, her hair done up at 
the back in the form of a castagnette turned inside out; and 
not far behind her emerge from the crowd two or three hand- 
some girls in short light-blue and pink skirts spotted with 
gilt spangles. But what the other dresses lack in character 
of style and cut is partially atoned for by the color. Let us 
give thanks that here is a people whose delight in pure color 
has not yet been distorted by bilious art critics with deranged 
livers. Black, white, cream, yellow, orange, vermilion, rose, 
cardinal, purple, blue, and green make a good enough color 
gamut for this simple race. Harmonies in ash-barrel grays 
and tobacco-juice browns are beyond its scope. Take the 
girl before us ; she has dared to put on a bright pink dress and 
drape her shoulders with a sage-green silken shawl embroidered 
with emerald-green leaves and red flowers. Oh, agony! 
Let us move on. 

The public park and square by the river-side are lined 
with barracks and shanties in which, as we pass, we see cutlery, 
fans, toys, and fruits, nothing worth looking at except the 
latter. Are you "hungry, thirsty," or do you want to "wash 
your face?" No? Otherwise we should have taken a seat 
in this shed and bought a large watermelon for five cents. 

But the odor of blood attracts us; so after refreshing our- 
selves with a two-cent-in-the-slot drink of lukewarm root 
beer, let us move on toward the Plaza de Toros. On the way 
we pass the cathedral, in florid Renaissance style, not without 
a certain character. It would certainly repay inspection, but 
we cannot stop now. 

At this window where there's a Spanish flag hung out, we 
will buy two tickets to the fight — three pesetas, or sixty 
cents and two cents added as a sort of tailpiece. Why under 
the sun this odd two cents? Sh! Let me whisper in your 
ear; — day — Spanish Gov. gets left. 

We zigzag on, slowly following the stream of people; the 
rapidity with which beggars and cripples increase and multiply 



APPENDIX 109 

is a sure sign that we are nearing some center of attraction. 
We plough our way through excrescences and protuberances 
to the sound of "Ave Maria," "Poor Blind Man, I," and "Go 
with God," and a little farther on come upon busy men selling 
cushions at four cents apiece. Let us invest, for cold stone 
is but at best a hard thing to sit upon. And now, emerging 
from a long, narrow lane, we come suddenly upon the Plaza 
de Toros, a huge coliseum in pale pink brick and rough plaster, 
guarded by mounted police full of dignity severe. We enter 
through wickets, walk around a bit in the outer corridor, then 
mount steps and pass through into the amphitheatre, an 
enormous stone circus without the tent covering. How many 
thousands of people can crowd into it? Let us reply not — 
we do not know, and to lie without the support of a guide- 
book is silly business, and we have none. From the ring 
below, surrounded by a wooden fence as high as a man's 
shoulders, run up twenty-five rings of stone seats, and crown- 
ing these come two covered galleries, one upon the other. The 
higher you get up the more aristocratic you are — exactly the 
reverse of an American theatre; those squatted on the top- 
most perch belong to Murcia's "four hundred." A part of 
the upper gallery, draped in red velvet with gold trimmings, is 
divided off with glass partitions, like unto a conservatory. This 
is reserved for the mayor, who is to be referee of the contest. 

A band is playing in the lower gallery. The ring is of 
sand, with a suspicious red look about it. A watering cart 
is promenading slowly about inside and a man is cleverly 
jerking a hose attached to the tail end of it in such a way 
that it is extremely difficult to say which is manipulating 
which, but the combination sprinkles the ring in quick time. 

While this is taking place, let us timidly glance up toward 
the nobility. Bewitching heads are peering down, enveloped 
in creamy white mantillas. Opera glasses point their muzzles 
disdainfully at us. You recognize the Countess X., with a big 
bunch of orange marigolds on her ample bosom? She would 
have fair success as a fat woman anywhere but in Spain. 
Here that size is in great demand, especially among the 
nobility. But let us be fair, taking the display of beauty all 
in all, it would be difficult to beat it anywhere in the world. 

It is four o'clock. What remains of sunlight in the amphi- 
theatre takes the form of a half-moon, a slice of watermelon, 



110 APPENDIX 

the crescent line cutting across seats and ring. Pandemonium 
is loose, every man who thinks anything of himself has brought 
along a scup-horn, and is tooting himself red in the face, only 
stopping from time to time to take a drink of wine from a 
gourd or bottle, or eat a piece of sausage. The band is com- 
pletely drowned out. Pedlers are selling bull-fight fans, soda 
water, and peanuts. 

And now the crowd springs to its feet, gives an extra toot 
and a huge yell of content, and the noise ceases as by 
enchantment. The mayor of Murcia has arrived, attired in 
all the glory of a plug hat — the only one in the place — and 
sits him down behind the red velvet and gold trimmings. At 
the same moment a door opposite him opens and a horseman 
with black cape and knee breeches cavorts up, and doffing his 
antique, broad-brimmed hat, respectfully asks permission to 
proceed with the ceremony. His request being generously 
granted and keys to the bull-pen thrown him, he turns his 
horse around, dances him about a bit, then bending low in 
the saddle, shoots out of the ring at a gallop. 

Then in comes the quadrille, and this entree is the chief 
attraction of a bull fight. The great amphitheatre is in 
shadow, except this slice of sunlight opposite us. Thousands 
of people closely packed together become so diminutive that 
the color of their costumes is swallowed up, melted into a mass 
of dull black and blue-gray. 

All the glory of sunlight and of color is concentrated upon 
the bespangled band that enters the ring. In the front rank 
walk three espadas, then the banderilleros, behind them come 
picador es on sorry-looking steeds with bandaged eyes; and, 
bringing up the rear, horses, three abreast, with brightly 
colored saddles, conducted by lackeys on foot in black coats 
and white pantaloons. 

Gold spangles glisten, costumes, scarfs, and capes of scarlet, 
cardinal, green and yellow make a symphony of color delightful 
to the eye. With peculiar measured step, something like that 
of Bowery toughs demanding "Say, d'y e know who I am?" this 
scintillating mass of color struts across and salutes the mayor. 

Then the lackeys lead out their horses and suddenly what 
is left splits up like the bursting of a sky-rocket. The pica- 
dores hastily conduct their ambling beasts over into the sun- 
light, the banderilleros shake out their dull red and yellow 



APPENDIX 111 

capes, and a band of jumping, running, hustling elves springs 
out from we hardly know where — ■ elves in vermilion shirts, 
blue pantaloons, and red Tarn o'Shanter hats with blue knobs. 
They run about, armed with sticks and scurry over beside 
the picador es. They are the vassals, the gnomes, the imps — 
what you will — whose business is to prop up and encourage 
decayed horses, and in the hour of need to push them over 
upon the bull. 

A door opens and something rushes into the ring as though 
shot out of a cannon. It stops suddenly, and then we see a 
big, fat, dogged-looking bull blinking his eyes, a rosette with 
streamers stuck in his neck. He is evidently unaccustomed 
to so much light; he has emerged from some dark prison, and 
is obliged to get his bearings; but in an instant a banderillero 
runs up, unrolls his cape in his face with a flap, and then 
flies for the railing, the bull after him. We see figures jump- 
ing over the fence, we hear the crunch of horns in the wood ; 
spectators around us yell. A picador urges his horse over 
into the shade, takes a grip in the saddle with his legs, extends 
his lance, then over he goes in a heap, horse on top. Elves 
pull him out, others surround another picador, push him and 
his steed over toward the bull and then run behind him. 
The long, sharp horn pierces the horse's side as though it were 
jelly and the horse tumbles over, blood gushing out as from a 
fountain. "More horses!" yells the crowd, as excited as at 
any negro camp-meeting, while near us a little boy bursts 
out a-sobbing as though his heart were broken, his father 
consoling him. 

Two horses lie dead ; gnomes are pulling off their harness 
and trappings. A cornet sounds — the picadores lead out 
their blood-marked steeds, some of which are evidently the 
worse for wear, but they must yet serve. 

Now the bull receives in the back three pairs of banderillas — 
a sort of dart bedecked with nigger barber-shop tissue-paper, 
implanted by the hand of the nimble banderillero. Taurus 
does not seem to fancy this sort of decoration, for he prances 
about, trying to shake them out and roaring with pain, to the 
applause and laughter of the multitude. 

Again the trumpet sounds its leit-motif and an espada walks 
up and salutes the mayor, unwinding a little speech, the pur- 
port of which probably is that he will try to do his noble duty, 



112 APPENDIX 

with the divine aid of the Virgin, and that in case of death 
it would give him extreme satisfaction to know that his 
chewing gum will be presented to his sister. 

He scales behind him his yoke-shaped hat, disclosing to 
view a short pig-tail (by these signs ye shall know him) and 
takes a bright vermilion flag and a slightly-curved sword. 

A curious picture — here elves raking and scraping sand 
over pools of blood, over there an espada making mysterious 
flourishes with his flag before the bull's nose, and indulging 
in hair-breadth escapes, some of which are rapturously ap- 
plauded. Decidedly, we know not yet all the fine points of 
this game of bull. Here is a spectator near us with a printed 
paper like a baseball score, in which he markes the quality 
of the jabs and stabs and the number of slain. 

Now the espada stands for an instant motionless, pointing 
his sword, curve downward, toward the ridge of the bull's 
neck. He runs forward then to the left and out of the way, 
and the sword rests implanted firmly. Everybody seems to 
expect the bull to fall dead. But no! he still keeps his legs, 
though groggy, so there is a necessity of a little jab on the 
forehead with the sword's point. On the whole, not a bad 
thrust as Spaniards take it, for yells rend the air. Hats soar 
out into space and fall into the ring. From what I have read 
we can expect to see noble ladies in the top story throw over 
gold bracelets, diamond rings, and other baubles. 

Alas! nothing but a shower of two-cent cigars from the 
vulgar crowd. 

The door opens again, in jingle the horses to remove the 
slain. The dead bull goes last, making a huge sweep in the 
sand. There are shouts and cries and snappings of whips, 
while the band emits notes of joyous melody. 

The picadores come in again and take places in the sun- 
light to prepare and look to their saddles. 

Why in the sunlight? Because the bull, emerging from the 
dark, has a first preference for objects in the shade. Like 
certain connoisseurs and critics in art matters who pass their 
existence in back alleys and city streets, sunlight is distasteful 
to him and blinds his weakened eyes. 

There is a flash of dark and a black bull enters the ring and 
rushes around at a gallop, sending everybody leaping over the 
railing. They hop back as the bull goes by and the bander- 



APPENDIX 113 

illeros are again at work unfurling their capes in his face. 
Elves push a horse into the shade and stamp on the ground 
to attract the bull's attention. 

How picturesque a scene! Five banderilleros standing like 
statues in a straight line, waiting for the picador to perform 
his perilous somersault. Over he goes, and they spread out 
like a fan and with their capes distract the bull's attention, 
while elves pull out the fallen man. He has evidently been 
hurt, for one of them slings him over his back like a quarter 
of beef, head downward, and scurries out of the ring. 

"Ha! Ha!" "Blood! Blood!" The fifth act in a dime 
museum melodrama. 

The horse struggles to his feet. Glory! he can yet be used. 
Economy is all-important, even in a bull fight. See! there 
is an elf pushing in the horse's entrails and caulking him up 
with hemp. Jump up there, you picador, push and persuade 
the horse, with words of good cheer, to make a target of him- 
self again. Tap, elves! yell, shout, cry! that the bull may 
again come this way. Here he is; his horn pierces the horse's 
stomach. Ugh! While noble senoras and gallant caballeros 
lean far out to feast their eyes upon the spectacle in all its 
detail, let us turn away and curse ourselves for having come 
to such an exhibition. 

And so it goes. Banderilleros run up and implant their 
darts, and again comes the death signal from the band. And 
death comes hard to this bull, for in the words of the score, 
there is need of three sword thrusts, two jabs, and a stab with 
an apple pie marker. 

The third bull is lacking in grit, and men around us jump up 
and indignantly apostrophize him. Oh, bull! why dost thou 
groan in this unseemly fashion? See! the proud young espada, 
in pink tights, indignantly wrests from your back the rosette 
and streamers, while tin horns toot and rattles clack. But we 
must have blood ; if the mountain will not go to Mohammed — 

To work, then imps! Push up a horse! Give him a shove, 
the horns will do the rest. And if the bull has not spirit 
enough to put himself in good position to receive the fatal 
thrust, tap him indignantly with the sword. Two jabs and 
a thrust do for him. 

How many bulls are to be killed? Why six, and see, this 
one is inferior, too, for he jumps over the railing twice. 



114 APPENDIX 

But the others that come after are courageous, and the 
sixth slays four horses. This makes amends for the rest. 
Looking at the score we see a total of eleven horses killed. 
This is a very decent slaughter; so, contented with everybody 
and everybody contented with us, let us give a last yell, throw 
our cushions into the ring, light up a cigar, and file out. 

As we move along with the crowd, the cathedral tower 
bathed in a setting sun attracts our eye, bringing to our 
mind the thought that this spectacle has taken place on the 
day of the Nativite de la Sainte Vierge. 

Dodge Macknight. 



(Boston Evening Transcript, February 3, 189A) 

IMPRESSIONIST NOTES 

The Orange-purple Landscapes of Spain — Hard 

Times in a Sunny Huerta — The Streets 

of Orihuela 



The royal highway from Murcia to Valencia, on leaving 
the first-named town, crosses the huerta, or flat, irrigated 
valley that extends for leagues to the north and south, and 
traversing a few foothills, drops down into it again and goes 
along hugging the base of a chain of orange-purple mountains, 
as bare a chain of sierras as can be seen anywhere in this 
world. 

About fifteen miles out, where the white road steers straight 
ahead, the sierras which overhang on the left sweep down in 
perspective in a semicircle, cut off the road and plunge into 
the huerta like a rock-bound coast into the sea. From here 
can be had the first good view of the city of Orihuela. It lies 
there, a mile away, nestling at the base of the last spur like a 
long train of white railroad cars — halfway up the mountain 
a big building isolated, and down below, the town strung 
out with its half-dozen square church towers. 

The city, on inspection, proves to consist of one long artery; 
resembles a centipede, squirming around, following the con- 
tour of the sierra, crossing the river Segura and coming half- 
way back again on the other side, the feet of the centipede 
being represented by the offshoots or streets, lanes, and alley- 
ways which to the left run up into the very rock and on the 
right stop at the river wall. From the other side of the stream, 
at the extreme end of the town, the great bulk of Orihuela is 
exactly across the water, with its gitano or gipsy quarter 
turned toward us, and looks for all the world like a huge mass 
of old whitey-yellow plaster dumped down in a heap at the 
foot of the sierras, which, from this point, are grandiose. 
There they are, hung against the sky, strung along an invisible 
curtain rod, bare and ungrateful hunks of marble, quartz, iron 
and copper ore, splashed with deep red, purple and ochery 



116 APPENDIX 

venomous green, and bored with holes, where races past and 
present have delved in a tired way for mineral treasures. 
Crowning the spur, at the foot of which lies Orihuela, are the 
ruins of an old Moorish castle; and on a certain night, once 
every year, a bright light burns there to commemorate the 
taking of the place by the Spaniards in the fourteenth century. 
A vague tale is told of men masquerading as women, following 
up a nurse who had access to the citadel at all hours, killing 
off the sentinels one by one, and ending up with a grand fifth- 
act Shakspearian massacre of king, queen, and rabble. 

Now all that remains as handiwork of the Moors are the 
bits of castle walls on the mountain top; a square orange- 
colored tower or two down below and the buttresses of two 
bridges. From that time on to the present day the centuries 
have left almost nothing of interest in the way of architec- 
ture. The Gothic has gone, dropping a church door or two 
by the way; the Renaissance has left as remembrance the 
picturesque church front of Santiago, in yellow stone, with 
a big, rugged, well-sculptured saint with staff and book in the 
center of the portal. The rest of the monuments are rococo, 
without even the charm of barbaric ornament to be seen in 
some of the churches of Valencia. The city gates, there are 
three or four of them left, are niches for hideous tinsel and 
tissue-paper Virgins and old Jack-in-the-box clocks which 
have long since ticked their last tick. 

But, nevertheless, the brush of time has smeared the entire 
town with faded yellowish hues that give it an ensemble lack- 
ing in most Spanish cities; for there are very few modern 
structures with their raw whites and grays and browns. 

Take a lot of toy building blocks, of different sizes, that 
have passed through many hard winters, string them together, 
and you have a typical street of Orihuela in miniature. In the 
poorer quarters, doors serve for windows and long, slim, 
wooden gutters throw the rain into the middle of the street. 
They are entirely Arab in character, these houses, and the 
faces of many of the young girls who live therein need only 
to be decked with gold pieces, and their bodies with a few less 
rags, to transport us to the very midst of Algeria. The larger 
and longer streets, where the houses are of two or three stories, 
smell Spanish enough, as the French idiom has it, with their 
balconies and grilled, latticed lower t windows, where lovers 



APPENDIX 117 

in the stilly night murmur that old strain of "Thou art so 
near, and yet so far." 

In the winter time they lie there, bare and nude, these 
building blocks, the long, irregular line of iron balconies 
wobbling away in perspective, and here and there a railing 
or two to keep people from falling off the roof; but when they 
put on their summer garments, in the way of white and green 
awnings, or their religious robes of yellow and red, then we 
may well look at them. 

Nay, one street puts on its most picturesque habit in winter. 
'Tis the Calle Mayor, the center of commerce, where all the 
dry goods stores are huddled together. On both sides of the 
thoroughfare, trailing from the third-story windows toward 
the sidewalk, hang narrow manias or peasants' shawls, some 
fifteen feet long, giving to the street a Japanese aspect. 

But be the streets ever so bare in winter, or ever so bedecked 
in time of festival, it is the beings who people them and give 
them life that put Orihuela in a place by itself. The reasons 
for this can be expressed with three p's — poverty, peasants, 
and priests. Being a rus in urbe, where the existence of the 
city itself with its twenty thousand inhabitants depends upon 
the huerta surrounding it, there is always a goodly proportion 
of uncles and aunts (as they call them here, in a scornful way) 
passing through, with their round, black, umbrella-like hats, 
their shawls, and their bare ankles and sandals. I have said 
that the life of the city depends upon the country that sur- 
rounds it, and things have gone so very badly in the huerta 
for many years that the smearing brush of time, when passing 
over the buildings, has not missed many of the inhabitants, 
thus blending all into one harmonious whole. In spring, in 
autumn, at the change of seasons, the people seem to spruce 
up a bit, to sponge off their yellow bath. But a suit of cheap 
cotton and woolen mixture, or a robe of six-cent cotton print, 
cannot stand the Spanish sun for more than a few weeks, and 
soon Orihuela takes on its old-clothes look, and things move 
on as before. 

Shopkeepers, tradesmen, mechanics, working-men, working- 
girls, peasants, beggars, and priests, they come, they go, they 
furnish a note of their own. 

The tradesman, with his derby hat and clothes of cosmo- 
politan shade and shape, in winter enveloped to the eyes in 



118 APPENDIX 

his capa, or sort of double cape ; the sports, who love the bull 
fight, with their picturesque wide flat-brimmed, low-crowned 
felt hats; the working-man with his little cap, often supple- 
mented by a long blue cotton blouse; the girls of the people 
(the glory of Spain), the chicas, with hair in a Grecian knot, 
and cheap, but beautifully-toned robes of pink, yellow, or 
blue, in winter with shawls clinging to their graceful shoulders ; 
the red pepper or pimiento trader, soaked in tones of most 
brilliant orange from top to toe — face, hat, shirt-sleeves, 
pantaloons and feet; the peasants, shirt-sleeved in summer, 
with vests unbuttoned, and black scarfs wound round their 
waists; the women, with crinoline skirts, and silk handker- 
chiefs for headgear, bringing into the town the colors of the 
oranges and lemons and the fruits and flowers of the huerta; 
the water carrier, and his little toy donkey cart with its half- 
dozen light yellowish-green cdntaros set in holes; the rude, 
two-wheeled creaking carts, drawn by cruelly-yoked oxen in 
pairs, with slow majestic tread, while from time to time the 
drivers come to a dead stop before them and stretching out a 
long wand seem to say, "Dominus vobisctim" ; the estiercol 
gatherer with his decadent donkey, costing from one to eight 
dollars, scooping up dust, dirt, paper and rags with which 
to form compost for the fields; and the beggars! say five per 
cent of the population. Optimistic beggars! none of your 
Jean-Francois-Millet, heart-bowed-down-with-care, mournful- 
winter-twilight beggars! Good old Spanish sunlight beggars, 
putting picturesqueness into nineteenth century clothing, 
combining circles, squares, triangles, trap-door, top-heavy 
derby hats, worm-eaten garments, alligator-mouthed boots 
and shoes, and making thereof subjects for a work of art; 
the halt, the lame, the blind, and the tired, in winter sitting 
in the sun, in summer seeking the shade, smoking cigarettes, 
taking with "God repay you!" a cent or half a cent, if you 
choose to give it, not seeming to care so very much whether 
you do or not; the priests! say another five per cent of the 
population; Curas, Jesuitas, Capuchinos, Frailes, they pass in 
a never-ending procession; the Curas, who say mass daily in 
the churches, ranging from lean to fat, with a predominance of 
the latter; good fellows, all of them, smoking cigarettes, play- 
ing at draughts, whiling the idle hour away at the side of the 
pretty girls in the cigar shops, mingling fraternally with their 



APPENDIX 119 

fellow-men, never making you weak in the back with a "Young 
man, do you know your soul is not saved?" ready to do their 
very best to get you a little place in paradise, even if you apply 
at the last hour; a joy to the eye and the heart when they pro- 
ceed at night to the house of the dying man under a splendidly 
picturesque red umbrella, accompanied by a string of persons 
with candles, while the little bell tinkles, the passers drop to 
their knees and inhabitants place themselves at their doors 
with rush lights. Then the monks, in heavy robes of brown 
and black, with heads shaved in circles, meekly stretching out 
their waist-cord to be kissed and, at the same time, stuffing 
provender into their fat begging-bag. 

Here in Orihuela we may form a very good idea of the 
Catholic religion as it was centuries ago all over Europe. 
Churches, convents, seminaries, and processions still wield a 
mighty power. There is not, perhaps, one able-bodied person 
in all the town who misses mass on a Sunday or a holy day. 
It is always St. this or St. that, and the bells are continually 
whanging and banging and clanging. If Edgar Poe had 
resided here when he wrote his famous composition, he would 
have found a word to rhyme with bell that I do not think he 
used. (For he was a nervous, pessimistic chap, was Edgar.) 

Bells are all right as long as they confine themselves to 
striking the hour; but when, in joy of the coming feast day, 
they burst out a week in advance, supplemented by booming 
cannons up on the mountain side, starting in promptly every 
day at five a.m., then nothing but good old English oaths 
will relieve the pent-up feeling. Faith has dwindled to half- 
belief, but it will be a long while before denial sets in, so all 
outward forms and religious customs are still strictly adhered 
to. 

Long live spectacular religion, say I! Long live religious 
processions! Balconies buried under cloths of red and yellow, 
people hanging there like bunches of grapes; the whish of the 
sky-rocket, the boom of the bomb, the bishop under his 
canopy with its eight poles, tap-tapping in time to the slow 
step of the procession; the images of painted wood (unfortu- 
nately buried under Paris-green leaves and pink tissue-paper 
flowers, in a land where roses find no market at twenty cents 
a bushel). In holy week the Roman soldiers with S.P.Q.R. 
banners, tin helmets, and a patented step — religion's all 



120 APPENDIX 

right! As my friend the waiter in the posada remarked, "I 
don't go very much to mass" (he lied) "still I'd rather see 
processions in holy week than a bull fight." The Inquisition 
has faded away to the horizon, a wee little speck, nothing 
more; the name of everyone who fails to confess at Easter 
is announced from the pulpit. 

The mechanics of Orihuela are bravely wallowing away in 
the B.C. years. But, should an artist complain? The car- 
penter buys the trunk of a tree, and saws it up by hand. The 
shoemaker sews his boots by hand. The chocolate maker 
rubs together his cocoa bean and sugar with a hand roller. 
The man who wishes to bedeck himself, buys his cloth and 
takes it himself to the tailor; or goes to the hatter, picks out 
a formless felt, and has it shaped to his liking. The barber 
(thank God!) comes to your own mansion, with his towel and 
Don Quixote helmet, to daub your face with snow. 

And the prices of wages? In the B.C. years too, ranging 
from twenty to fifty cents a day. The most skilled workman 
in the city does not earn more than sixty cents. Physicians 
take ten cents for a consultation, and, even at that, make a 
howling revenue in comparison. Bless us! and what do 
the people eat? Well, it is made of wheat, you know what 
they call it — bread. With beef -steak at forty-eight cents a 
pound, mutton thirty, and pork thirty-five, the inhabitant 
is a vegetarian in spite of himself. 

In the summer time about everybody in Orihuela camps 
out in the street, taking turns, according to the hour and the 
position of the sun. With the thermometer at ninety or 
ninety-five in the shade, nobody wants to go into the house 
except to eat and sleep. And so chairs are brought forth 
and installed upon the sidewalk, and whole families sit there — 
mamma and papa in the places of honor, the interstices being 
filled up with children and cats. The smaller the child, the 
less clothing it has on. It is not uncommon to see a little 
naked mite toddling about; and be just as indignant as you 
like, O Mrs. Member of the Society for the Prevention of 
Cruelty to Animals, a more beautiful sight God never made. 
I, myself, am much more shocked when I look at those two 
ladies combing each other's hair by turns out on the sidewalk. 
You may, perhaps, be shocked also at those eructations ema- 
nating from gentlemen sprawled out after a hearty meal. 



APPENDIX 121 

But that is what is called character! These are customs 
descended straight from the Moors. 

Sidewalks are well enough in their way, but the inhabitant 
of Orihuela has a lead-pipe cinch on the street also. I have 
seen grave, calm old men in spectacles playing at draughts 
in the exact center of the thoroughfare, and horsemen and 
teams going around, as a matter of course. 

I know of no more glorious sight than the Glorieta, or public 
garden, on a Sunday in the month of May. The air is heavy, 
permeated, saturated with the odor of orange blossoms. The 
garden, in the form of a hollow square, a solid mass of roses of 
every hue from white to an intense bloody red that spots upon 
the green, forms a frame for the people walking up and down 
the gravel. Poor and rich elbow one another. One would 
think that the spirit of democracy were rife. The band, 
up in its little roofed summer-house, plays marches and 
waltzes. 

The kaleidoscope turns. Now robes, silk handkerchiefs, 
and pannelos de Manila, jostle together in a bunch, with the 
colors of the spectrum. Now a subtle gamut of drabs, pinks, 
and gray-greens swells out before our eyes, and in the twilight 
hours, when the stronger hues are swallowed up and we see 
only pinks, light blues, and velvety blacks swimming in a 
lavender haze, pain and despair descend upon us, and we cry 
with the poet Corbiere — 



"Nature! On est essayeur, pedicure, 
Ou quelque autre chose dans l'art!" 



And how do the people of Orihuela amuse themselves? 
Well, those of a pensive turn of mind, like beggars and fisher- 
men, take to the river, which cuts through the town as though 
the channel had been hewed after the city was built, there 
being no edging of sand or shore. The fishermen lean on the 
bridges, haul up and lower down bait; the beggars sit and 
philosophically watch them or the hurrying stream below, that 
varies from a pale green to a sinster blood-red when storms 
in the mountains open their flood-gates. Any ordinary mortal 
could while away an afternoon in simply watching the objects 
that float down on the bosom of the tide. One day I saw, in 
the course of two hours (it began pianissimo), a rolling log, a 
dead cat, a dead dog, and then there passed (a glorious FF 



122 APPENDIX 

burst) the corpse of a man who had been assassinated some- 
where up the river. 

Another place of amusement is the cafe. There at one or 
two o'clock in the afternoon you will find a band of trades- 
men and shopkeepers banging down dominoes, smoking 
cigarettes, drinking coffee, and making a terrific hubbub; 
above all, playing dominoes, making of the game a very 
respectable sort of four-handed whist with twenty-eight cards. 

Then there is the Plaza de Toros — an amphitheatre of 
unpainted scaffolding — where, at rare intervals, cheap 
circus-men swing on trapezes and boldly spring worm-eaten 
jokes. Nobody is disgusted, be the performance ever so bad. 
Shouts of laughter greet the most ordinary sort of horse play. 
I tell you it is a great thing for a man along in the forties 
to be able to laugh when he sees a clown banging some one 
over the rear quarters with a stuffed club. That man 
can safely shoo away even the spectacled intellectuality of 
the Hub. 

Once every year there is a bull fight by professionals, and 
from time to time the young men with the wide-brimmed felt 
hats pool their assets and get up a corrida of young bulls, 
heifers, or cows. Then the young espada, with his soubriquet 
of "Terrible" or "Vanquisher," dropping his sword and red 
flag, wildly flies for the barrier, and smashes into it ker-thump, 
or is pulled over, head first. And the nimble banderillero, 
after missing the young heifer's sides with his darts by a good 
foot or two, gets a leg caught between the horns and turns a 
disagreeable somersault, while everybody "Ha! ha's!" till the 
planks crack. 

Now comes the theatre — the most extraordinary theatre 
ever constructed in any land. Imagine Robinson Crusoe 
strolling down to the beach and coming upon an old hulk full 
of undressed lumber. What will he do with it to amuse him- 
self? Ha! ha! Visions of the Drury Lane of his time float 
before him. So he gets to work with his hammer and nails, 
and puts together a three-story theatre. Here is the pro- 
scenium; Man Friday paints the scenery with a goat's tail 
and different colored earths; here is the family circle, divided 
off into boxes, the plank benches in the parterre can be adorned 
with pieces of a red flannel shirt; there will be a bit, too, for 
the second gallery. Nigger heaven must go content with 



APPENDIX 123 

scaffolding. There's nothing the matter with splinters as 
long as you don't connect with them. 

This is the theatre of Orihuela. And the proprietor said, 
"Let there be light! And there was light!" You bet there 
was! Eight ancient small-wick kerosene lamps on a side. 
And the players? Could they be more naive than the theatre? 
Hardly; in fact, they are often excellent, especially in zar- 
znelas or musical farces. From time to time an impecunious 
but courageous band comes to town from Alicante or Carta- 
gena. The engagement commences with great eclat. For 
the first three or four nights the theatre is jammed; then the 
money in Orihuela gives out, and at the bitter end — the 
railroad track! 

The railroad track! That brings to mind another amuse- 
ment, this time of the bourgeois class. In the late afternoon 
hours two trains pass through, one on its way to Alicante, 
the other towards Murcia, and lines of men and women wind 
slowly up the long superb avenue of plane trees to the sta- 
tion, walk along the tracks and watch the cars go by. Even 
blind men can be found among the spectators. 

And lastly, the religious fetes — the verbenas — cakewalks, 
in a narrow street, strewn with sweet-scented leaves. A 
Moorish flute and drum discourse music, and pinwheels go 
buzzing up and down the street on a long cord. 

Once every year there are excellent fireworks in honor 
of the Virgin of Monserrate, the patron saint of Orihuela. 
Towers and castles, bombs and rockets of well-combined 
colors fill the big square with a golden rain. The pyrotechnist 
hangs over the roof of a three-story house and cries to the 
crowd below, "Well how does she go?" And everybody yells 
back, "Bully!" 

Then, "Hurrah for the Virgin of Monserrate-e-e-e!" 
ll Viva-a-a-a!" (Whish, fizz, fizz, boom!) "Hurrah for 
God!" 

"Viva-a-a-a!" (Boom, boom fizz, whish-st!) 
"Hurrah for the inhabitants of Orihuela-a-a-a!" 
"Viva-a-a!" (Whish, whish, whish, whish, boom!) 
"Hurrah for the strangers within our gates!" 
"Viva-a-a!" (Boom, boom, boom, boom, bang!) 
"Hurrah for the strangers within our gates." Can we let 
that pass? Never! Off with your hats, Americanos! 



124 APPENDIX 

Here's to Orihuela! Here's to the Spaniard! A better nation 
never walked the earth! In matter of wealth and boasted 
civilization behindhand in the race, perhaps, but in the sterling 
qualities of chivalry, generosity, and hospitality leaving the 
rest of Europe hull-down at the horizon. Viva Espana! 

Dodge Macknight. 



(Boslcn Evening Transcript, March 21,, 1891,) 

IMPRESSIONIST NOTES 

An American Artist in Spain — Along the Huerta 

of Orihuela — Some Spanish Landscapes 

With Figures 

It is late winter. From my south window I look out over 
the top of my yellow-spangled lemon tree upon the huerta of 
Orihuela. The billiard-table valley, cut off from view at the 
left by the houses, convent walls, and church towers of the 
town, unwinds towards Murcia and the southwest. The 
yellow-brown reeds that rustled along the irrigating canals 
have been carried away, and the rim of the huerta cuts as 
distinct as the sea-line against the ever-accompanying range 
of light blue-purple mountains. The sky is without a fleck 
of cloud. The blue of the zenith gradually pales and dissolves 
into the Paris green of the horizon. The straight trunks of 
the palms, like lines in a spectrum, chop up the landscape into 
unequal portions, the most conspicuous trees being those near 
by that resemble huge feather dusters stuck in the soil, and 
others gradually drawing together till, far away, they accom- 
pany the line of the plain with a never-ending continuous 
series of little blots. 

The bare, tangled fig trees, the fingers of the pear trees, 
the canes of the mulberry trees melted in the distance into a 
long patch of reddish purple, open out, spring apart as they 
approach, and on the right an orange grove emerges. The 
dark green trees, over the tops of which the peaked roof of a 
hut peeps out, are thickly spattered with golden dots. Under 
my eye lies a field of young grain, a beautifully translucent 
green in the morning sunlight, cut up with purple ridges into 
parallelograms for irrigating. Toward the farther end a 
half-dozen little figures are weeding, bent at a right angle, 
irregularly bobbing up and down, like the teeth of a machine. 

The women were busy yesterday cutting up potatoes into 
small bits, and to-day, in that purple field yonder, they are 
putting them carefully down in lines under a long cord; and 



126 APPENDIX 

shirt-sleeved peasants with big, acute-angled hoes, are break- 
ing their backs as they cover them up in ridges. 

Here is a field of lettuce; there is a line or two of cardo, a 
sort of edible-stalk artichoke, cleverly banked three feet 
high. Over there a wind-break of reeds, put into the ground 
at a slant, is protecting little beds of tomato or red pepper 
plants. 

Along the shady roads figures pass at intervals — a woman 
enveloped in a bright-colored shawl, a man wrapped up in a 
black-and-white plaid manta. A little boy with an old felt 
hat that has taken on the form of a campanula bell, strolls 
slowly along behind a donkey of dejected mien, with a load 
of paper, rags, and dirt, brought from the sweepings of the 
town. From time to time he whangs the donkey over the 
rump with a stick and lazily cries "Ar-r-r-re bur-r-r-r-a!" 

Sandy, uncared-for roads! Wily, meek, devilish roads! 
where ox teams dangerously tilt (I have seen a load of grapes 
take a dive into the canal), and donkeys sometimes, after a 
rain, doggedly stop short and seem to say, "I draw the line at 
this pond. I haven't got my life preserver with me." 

The song birds are not yet here. The chirp of the sparrow 
only strikes our ear. But, oh, hark! Hear voices singing a 
mile away! Hear them singing near by! The peasant gath- 
ering oranges sings, the little boy with his donkey is singing, 
one of the potato planters suddenly bursts forth with a couplet 
— "My loved one has played me false! God help me! When 
you hear the church bells tolling a death-knell you need not 
ask why!" 

The little villages at the foot of the sierras, with the purple 
roofs of their huts popping up, angles amidst a forest of circle- 
leaved Barbary fig trees — the little villages a la Hokusai, 
rendered all the more Japanesque by their mushroom-hatted 
inhabitants, are half-buried under the foam of the almond 
tree in flower. 

Strong yellow-green of cactus, blue-green of aloe, celestial 
white and pink and tender lavender of almond flower, walled 
in with a solid line of sierras — 'tis Paradise! 'Tis an ecstatic 
fancy of boyhood's days; a landscape let fall from the Arabian 
Nights! Away with the paint brush! Let us sit down in 
the shade and dream away the hours, for we shall never look 
upon its like again. 



APPENDIX 127 

But now the northeaster that threatened for so long is upon 
us in full force. It has been pouring steadily for three days. 
Last night it rattled like thunder on the roof. The wheat 
has turned a cold green, the slate-purple mountains have lost 
their tops in the mist. Hark! They are blowing shell horns 
at intervals — "H-o-o-o!" The treacherous river has shot up 
ten feet with frightful rapidity. It sweeps around the bend in 
whirling eddies, tearing off corners of sand as it goes, carrying 
by weeds and refuse and branches of trees. The peasant 
stands at his hut door with anxious face. The water as yet 
is but a muddy yellow, but if it takes on its horrible red tint, 
if it is pouring back in the mountains, then God be with us! 
It will burst over the levees, make a lake of the huerta, ruin 
our crops, and our huts will fall like card houses. Aid, con- 
tributions, will no doubt flow in from other lands, but only 
to melt away into the pockets of those in power, as so often 
before. The price of crops being already so low that we can 
hardly earn bread to eat, must inundation be added to anni- 
hilate us? 

But no! Late at night the mist and cloud break away; 
the danger is past. Fervent thanks to our Virgin of Mon- 
serrate! 

'Tis March, 'tis April, 'tis May — le mois de Marie. The 
fruit trees put on their resurrection robes. The flowers of 
the peach tree, so exquisitely pink, open out in strings of 
garlands. The plum tree throws against the blue sky a 
splash of white stars. The pear trees have bulged out into 
great big snowballs; with the faintest sigh of the zephyr they 
regretfully, silently, drop their flakes. The little quince tree, 
with its fragile white cups rimmed with pink, hangs over the 
reed fence. The spendthrift orange trees are opening and 
carelessly throwing away their divinely perfumed flowers of 
wax. A peasant is scratching the earth with a plough resem- 
bling half an anchor affixed to a long mast, or a crochet needle. 
Two oxen are pulling with majestic step. And the young man 
sings, "On entering in thy gard-e-e-e-n, on entering in thy 
gard-e-e-e-n, I took off my sandals; for I would not walk upon 
the flowers, when I entered in thy gard-e-e-e-e-n." 

"C'etait le printemps , f 'avals vingt ans." Oh, youth! Oh, 
annually returning season of flower and perfume and joy and 
crushing sadness, through which a ringing swan-song runs 



128 APPENDIX 

its strain! The springtime of youth has passed away, and 
the sob must be strangled as we slide down to drop into the 
infinite. 

The reeds are rapidly shooting up their lance points. The 
potatoes need banking up; ten white shirt-sleeved men with 
black waist-scarfs bend double and work like wildfire. Every 
hour they stop to rest and smoke a cigarette. The tomato 
plants are being put in the ground, each protected from the 
chill night wind by a fan-like bit of wiry grass stuck in the 
cleft of a stick. A man thrusts deep into the dry, sandy 
earth a stiletto, and as he pulls it out rapidly replaces it with 
a young plant. A barrier is hoed away, and water comes 
quickly and fills the furrows. 

They are fertilizing the date palms. Pollen from the male 
tree is carried up and dusted upon the female flowers. 

The fig trees have unfolded their yellow-green, arabesque 
leaves. Girls with network baskets of esparto grass are up 
in the mulberry trees cruelly stripping the canes. In the 
hut the silkworm is greedily eating his glutton repast on 
shelves of reed. 

The full moon has hung out its white incandescent globe. 
Nature is flooded with electric light. The sky is an exquisite 
blue, the ground salmon, the sierras purple, the orange trees 
spot black, deep shadows lash the road. A sound of hum- 
ming guitar floats faintly toward us. Let us enter the house 
of friend Francisco. A thin, hatchet-faced man with little 
bead-like eyes, dressed in pitiful, patched garments, is singing. 
He is a plate-mender. His children are countless. More 
likely than not hunger was gnawing at his vitals when he 
entered here; but he knew the table was ready for him. 
His fingers rattle over the strings; he sings verses of extra- 
ordinary sentiment. He eyes us with kindly glance, I know 
him well ; he sees a stranger with me. 

Ah! he has not forgotten us, listen: "These caballeros come 
from a distant land that I do not know and shall never see. 
But let them not think that because they are foreigners they 
are not esteemed. We love them as ourselves, for Jesus 
Christ has said, 'All men are brothers.' The noble Francisco 
has ever ready for them a bed and a humble repast." 

Ignorant men in rags with sentiments like these? Then 
out upon stingy civilization! 



APPENDIX 129 

Summer is with us; the thermometer is crawling rapidly 
toward ninety in the shade. Some crops have disappeared, 
been taken away. Tender greens make patches among the 
darker hues. Here the earth is never idle; two and three 
crops a year on the same land is the rule. 

They are reaping the wheat. Men in shirt and drawers 
are cutting with sickles as though their lives depended on it, 
as indeed it does,, for they are paid, by the acre. Suddenly a 
church bell in the town sounds the supreme moment of the 
mass. Hats come off, heads are reverently bowed. At the 
last stroke all make the sign of the cross. From time to time 
one of the reapers bursts out with a couplet, interspersed with 
encouraging cries of "Ole, ya!" from his comrades. Perhaps 
for they weeks have eaten nothing but bread and vegetables, 
generally crude. Olive oil is nourishing, but costly. They have 
been known to drop in their tracks under the unpitying sun. 

It has not rained since winter. The sun-god flares and 
pounds with fierce glee on the parched pink ground. "Water! 
water!" gasps Mother Earth, and the primitive, creaking, 
wooden wheels slowly turn, lifting up leaking cigar boxes of 
water from the canals into the ditches. An old broken-down 
horse or a pair of oxen circle round and round, spurred to 
their work by a little girl or boy — generally fast asleep. 

Threshing is going on. For a week the peasants have been 
rolling and flattening a circle of ground in the fields. A man 
on a sort of little sled is being run round at a jog trot by a 
pair of horses. He sings a most weird air that is never heard 
except when he is working with animals. He is a man of 
some three-score years, but he cries out, "A white dove — a 
white dove has pecked me in the chest!" while the sled rides 
over the billows and breaks up the stalks into little pieces. 
At last the stacks have faded away, the wind blows ofl the 
chaff, and little brooms heap together the hard, flesh-colored 
kernels. 

It is market day. Hucrtanos are coming back from the 
town. The roads have cropped out with great umbrellas — 
circles and parts of circles of white, yellow, orange, vermilion, 
blue, or pale green — a full cinnamon moon carrying away 
with it an orange-yellow skirt, or a segment of deep cobalt 
blue sheltering a figure in a cardinal handkerchief head-dress, 
blue-green shawl with orange-vermilion stripes and pink dress. 



130 APPENDIX 

Black hats and waist scarfs, white shirtsleeves, dresses and 
handkerchiefs of all the colors of the spectrum, pull the 
vitality out of the landscape and leave it limp and gray. 
There pass all sorts and conditions of peasants on donkey- 
back; an angular black figure without human shape or form. 
'Tis a widow with her shawl thrown over her head to protect 
her from the sun's rays; or a woman seated on a white sheep- 
skin, the husband walking behind banging the donkey with a 
stick, or two men on the same beast, their legs opened out 
like jumping-jacks. Nearly all the women carry baskets; 
many have new brooms of split palm leaves, with reed handles. 
A drove of squealing, grunting little black pigs goes grudg- 
ingly home. A two-wheeled cart jogs along, over the top 
peep heads and umbrellas, at the rear end hangs out an assort- 
ment of legs. 

It is noonday, the hour of the siesta. An oppressive 
silence reigns, peasants lie stretched out under the orange 
trees. The landscape quivers, the ground under foot throws 
back in our face the heat of an oven. The sky is bleached 
out, the sierras have faded into a purple, so exceedingly light 
and so excessively pure that the poor artist finds that he 
"ain't got any." Long strips of high hemp cut sharp with a 
brilliant, intense green. 

The laborer can now brighten up his menu with fruit. 
Apricots, peaches, and melons are as fine as one could wish. 
The apples and pears lack the juice of those of Northern 
climes. Lucious green or purple figs are not even asked for; 
the younger man climbs the tree, the older besieges it with 
sticks and stones. Donkey loads of prickly pears, twenty 
for a cent, are cut open for you by women in bright colored 
robes; prickly pears which, perhaps, need an acquired taste, 
but ever afterward satisfy as hardly any other fruit. 

Among the pomegranate trees, covered over with their 
vermilion bell-like flowers, they are picking string beans; a 
row of chattering girls in white, blue, and red, are filling their 
aprons. As the clocks in the town strike the hour the voice 
of the master rings out, "Dios te salve Maria!" and the women 
reply, "Ruega por nosotros pecadores!" Then the sign of the 
cross, and all fall to picking again. 

The young farmer who has lately been disappearing at 
night-fall, has communicated with his father, who goes in 



APPENDIX 131 

his behalf to the family of the loved one, making her a present 
of money according to his means. The bans are published. 
On an early morning tartanas rattle by, filled with a joyous 
company going to the church; returning an hour later they 
throw out sugared almonds before the huts of their friends; 
little boys run panting and begging behind. There will be 
a good repast of fowl and rice washed down with wine; there 
will be dancing with castanets, and singing to the sound of 
the guitar. A clean hut awaits the newly-married couple. 
The shelves are filled with new plates and saucers. There 
is a range of drinking jars set in holes, and a line of ollas 
occupies the chimney shelf. A copper chocolate pot or two 
hangs on the wall. On the door is a new poster, "He who 
enters here without first saying 'Ave Maria, purisimaV is 
without shame." They are happy, they think not of what 
is sure to come. There is a vista before them, of hard work 
in the broiling sun, but they see it not. Fever will hew off 
their fat and paint them yellow; many mouths must be fed; 
wages will average twenty-five cents a day; their house-rent 
must be paid by irrigating the crops at all hours of the day 
and night. As the old joke goes, they begin life without a 
cent, and they end up owing for the basket. Their clothes 
must be patched and repatched till they hold together no 
longer; the same thin cotton summer garment must shelter 
them in winter, re-enforced with shawl or manta. But they 
go regularly to mass; they are sure that after this life shall 
have burnt out, another better one awaits them in La Gloria. 

It is autumn, Indian corn is ripe, the trunks of the palm 
trees carry festoons of yellow, it hangs on the fences and under 
the eaves. The interiors of the huts are filled with bundles 
of it drying. 

The tall reeds along the river and the water-courses have 
shot up their plumes; their mission is fulfilled; their activity 
is over. 

The girls in blue, cardinal, and vermilion, that we saw last 
summer busy among the string beans, are now picking red 
peppers and filling sacks with them to be taken to the sierras 
and spread out and dried in the sun. The distant mountains 
are patched red with them at their base. Where grain was 
last threshed there is a red circle of them, and men are dancing 
a jig upon them or banging with clubs. They paint them- 



132 APPENDIX 

selves a vivid orange, and cough and go often to the 
water-jug. 

Now for hemp. Cut it with sickles and take it to the little 
ponds, put it in the water, keep it under the surface with 
heavy stones. Is it rotted? Then put on a rag or two, wade 
in and pull it out, and pile it in tent-like stacks to dry. The 
air is redolent with horrible odor of skunk. 

Men with strange faces are among us. They have suddenly 
-arrived from up country. Dressed in flowing white panta- 
loons, they are crushing the hemp-stalks with bladed logs. 
They pump, pump, pump with the handle, they pull the hair- 
like stuff through the closed jack-knife, they shake it in the 
wind, they perform strange contortions while standing on one 
leg. 

It is early winter, They are gathering dates. A man with 
a circle of strong rope inclosing himself and the trunk, jerks 
himself up the tree and cuts off the bunches. They will be 
ripened in vinegar. The reeds are being cut, and stored in 
bundles; they are repairing the fences with them. 

Christmas will soon be here. Viva! Turkeys spot the 
landscape on all sides; dressed in black, red, and blue, they 
strut about, open their fans, and puff out their chests, while 
their bead-like eyes wickedly glow. 

A long string of peasants on donkeys comes slowly along 
the road with huge gourds full of wine in the panniers. They 
are happy. Thoughts of the only good repasts of the year, 
combined with a few draughts of the rosy god have made 
them content with the universe entire. The chap in the rear 
cannot sit straight — ■ his words also have a jag. They have 
hurrahed for everything on earth and in heaven. As they 
pass the cry rings out, "Hurrah for the artist! Oh! Paint 
our portrait, will you! Got s'm exc'lent wine here, my fren 
(so-o-o, hurra!) come 'nd have a drink!" 

The chocolate pots have been scoured bright with sand 
and lemon juice, and hung upon the white wall against a 
sheet of brand new pink of purple paper. The plates have 
been dusted. The cups and saucers have been carefully 
arranged on the shelves, and oranges set in decoratively be- 
tween them. The tables have been scrubbed white. Women 
are busy at their domed clay ovens baking little round cookies 
made with carefully hoarded eggs. Sugar is dear, olive oil 



APPENDIX 133 

is dear, but let us eat well at Christmas-tide, for the rest of 
the year God will provide. 

'Tis Christmas Eve. At Francisco's house they have been 
preparing a painting of the Virgin of Monserrate. It is 
bedecked with pink tissue-paper roses and poisonous green 
leaves. It is in horrible taste, but they think it beautiful. 
They are no worse than others, more cultivated, who howl 
about art on the house-tops, and invest their money in baked 
beans and automobiles while the muse walks the pavement 
in penury and rags. 

The painting is mounted on a standard, fifty men with 
lanterns accompany it. They enter a hut, the occupants 
have been eagerly awaiting them. The Virgin is regarded 
with love and rapture. Guitars hum, a violin creaks, a soloist 
(it's our old friend the plate-mender) sings a subtle minor 
strain that gradually merges into a strong chorus in major 
key sung by the fifty lusty-voiced men. Then the offering 
to the Virgin is accepted — a few sous, a chicken, a turkey, 
or a bunch of dates; and out once more into the night, and on 
to the next hut, till the Blessed Mother of God shall have 
entered into every house in the hueria. 

'Tis noon on Christmas Day. When the cold day was 
breaking we went to mass. Viva Dios! Now for the repast! 
The turkey has been cut up and stewed with rice and saffron, 
and is waiting while we commence with the dumplings, stuck 
full of pine seeds of an appetizing flavor. Now set the big 
blue plate on the table. Are all provided with wooden spoons? 
Then pitch in and eat! Pass the wine carafe with its long 
slender spout! Drink and be merry! The bones go on the 
earth floor, cats are growling and disputing between our legs. 
Bring out the cakes! Out with the aguardiente! 

Have all finished? Then roll and light a cigarette, and 
off with our hats while every one in turn recites with bowed 
head and lowered voice, the Dios te salve, Maria, and the 
Padre Nuestro. Now let the sons and daughters come to 
kiss the father's hand. 

It is New Year's Day. The offerings to the Virgin, in the 
way of fruits and fowls, are being raffled off. Planks set up 
on stones form settees that line the four sides of the yard. 
The women sit closely squeezed together; they anxiously 
regard the cards in their hands, while a man holds a pack in a 



134 APPENDIX 

plate, and a little girl cuts. Five of hearts! Who has it? 
The big fat woman in the corner who has already won a turkey 
and two chickens. Out with something else! Start up the 
music! Plum-plum-plum, plum-plum-plum, goes the guitar; 
week, week-a-week, week, week, squeaks the violin; click-a- 
lick, click-a-lick, sound the castanets. A youth and a maiden 
are dancing, separate and facing one another. With one 
hand at the breast, the other extended, their fingers drum on 
the shells. The man advances, the woman recedes. He tries 
to captivate her, she coquettishly eludes him; she turns, she 
passes behind him. At last she is subjugated, they dance 
in rhythm, he falls to his knees, and she taps the castanets 
together over his head. Well done! 

Now everything has been raffled off, and we have won 
nothing. Patience! Better luck next year! If we haven't 
a fowl to carry home, it's because the Virgin wished it other- 
wise. 

It is late winter. The year has completed its cycle. From 
my south window I look out over the top of my yellow- 
spangled lemon tree. ****** 

Dodge Macknight. 



(Boston Evening Transcript, February 16, 1898) 

AN ARTIST IN SPAIN 

Abanilla, a By-path Village in Andalusia 

The ordinary New Englander, of course, doesn't give the 
mildest sort of a cuss what the place he lives in is called. A 
rose by any other name, etc. It may be so. However, if 
I were asked to show my preference by vote between, say, 
Skunktown or Jink's Corners and Abanilla I should fall all 
over myself in my anxiety to get to the polls. 

"How do you pronounce your Spanish word, please? Well, 
A-ba-neel-ya, with broad sonorous a's and hardly a suspicion 
of an 1, would perhaps do fairly well. Ay de mi! As my 
tongue lingers caressingly over it, I see in my mind's eye fair 
Andalusia and once more I rove in white pajamas under a pure 
pale blue sky among tones of topaz and emerald and sapphire. 

Abanilla! Yes, I went out there twice and I have been 
trying ever since to think up a comparison that would give 
some sort of an idea of the road leading there from Orihuela. 
Suppose you sit down on a truck and drive rattlety-bang over 
the tombstones of an old abandoned cemetery. The first 
time, I made the journey with Paco, a friend of mine who kept 
an inn, and we went in his cabriolet. Three or four miles out 
one of the springs snapped and we did the rest of the way 
sitting on a toboggan slide. It was a voyage of exploration 
and Paco was the proper person to take along for several 
reasons. In the first place, he was sure to know everybody 
(he knows nearly everybody wherever he goes, and the rest 
he swears he has met before) and everybody was sure to be 
a friend ; then again biliousness hung its very head for shame 
in his company, for although abominably poor and head over 
heels in debt, he was always singing coplas and firing out 
jokes that made you laugh, they were so infernally bad; and 
once again he could drink more aguardiente without showing 
it than anybody I ever knew, and I am rather of the opinion 
of Warrington, who thought the man capable of drinking the 
most beer in all London not without interest. All Abanilla, 
of course, was glad to see us, from the mayor down, or up. 



136 APPENDIX 

Business was suspended for the day and it was set 'em up, 
set 'em (hie) up (I threw mine on the floor when I could), and 
bref, there was a H.T. in the O.T. that day. The dirty old 
woman in the dirty posada got up a very good-tasting dinner 
for the band of us and as the wine skin went its round, I thought 
of Sancho Pa'nza and was sorry he was unavoidably detained 
elsewhere. Afterward there was a cup of black coffee up at 
the little cafe and then a new wagon was lent us to go home 
in and they gave us the despedida with loud hurrahs and 
cries of "God be with you!" 

Perhaps it. was not strictly a Young Men's Christian Asso- 
ciation picnic, but the trip was a howling success. Every- 
body enjoyed himself "honramente bien," and there wasn't 
even one man jabbed with a knife. 

Well, Abanilla rather pleased me, so I packed up my traps 
and started off there again, this time in a carro, under a 
broiling July sun, jammed in under a cloth awning between 
five fat women and sitting on a load of green onions that were 
talking awfully loud in the one hundred degree atmosphere. 
When you're in a steamer in a spanking gale there come 
times when the bottom drops away out from under you. In 
a carro, a two-wheeled, springless cart with the floor swinging 
from ropes, 'tis the same, only you go down after the bottom 
and meet it with a bang that tangles your intestines into 
knots and gives you appendicitis. 

Under these circumstances it was difficult to get up much 
enthusiasm over the landscape. We left the fertile, irrigated 
vega of Orihuela and its palm trees, turned the sierra, and 
struck off into the campo, where water was scarce and the 
road ridged across every fifty feet or so to collect rainfalls. 
Up we went and down we went, bumpety, bumpety, thump, 
over stones and boulders, with a sun glaring out of a bleached 
sky. 

Away off yonder across the flat plain was a sawed-out, 
jagged line of pale violet-blue mountains, and we knew that 
Abanilla lay among them, so on! on! through the chalky dust. 
No crops were anywhere in sight, but from time to time we 
passed through groves of ashy-gray-green olive trees, some of 
them vast enough, haciendas or fincas, the property of the 
Count of this or the Marquis of that, the only men who make 
any money in Spain nowadays except bull fighters. The 



APPENDIX 137 

sierras that we were leaving behind us, the highest one of 
which was crowned by a big wooden cross set up by French 
Jesuits in other days, were bare, rugged, and fine in line, and 
beautiful in hot tones of orange and red purple. Five or six 
miles toward the east lay crouched the tremendous hewed-out 
mass of rock called the Sierra of Callosa, isolated in the vast 
plain like a Gibraltar in the sea; and still farther away, toward 
Albatera and Alicante, could be discerned three or four other 
smaller islets. Here and there in the olive groves were carob 
trees of a grateful dark green. Now please don't ask me 
whether it was the locust bean that grows on this tree that 
John the Baptist masticated and chewed, or not. If 'twas 
grasshoppers, 'twas grasshoppers. If 'twas locusts — well, 
they're probably not much worse than boarding-house steak. 
I've seen Spaniards picking the pods to pieces and getting 
considerable fun out of 'em. 

By-and-by, after skirting the edge of a rambla (a sort of 
canyon or dry water-course), we came to a little village named 
Benferri, where they were threshing out grain, for near by 
there was a spring turned to irrigating purposes, and crops 
of different sorts could be coaxed from the land. 

A threshing scene in Spain differs radically from anything 
of the sort in America. Circles of ground out in the fields 
are rolled smooth and the sheaves piled up in big stacks 
around. Rude sun shelters for man and beast are erected — 
four poles stuck in the earth, with a roof of thatch lashed to 
them at the corners. When all is ready, men climb upon the 
stacks, cry venga! and toss the bundles to women and boys, 
who tug and drag them and lay them carefully out over the 
arena. And there is a deal of laughter and singing, I warrant 
you. 

"Yes, but rather behind the times, ain't they?" 

Oh, don't make me tired with the times! I'd rather ride 
around on a little sled and laugh and shout and sing as I beat 
out my grain than hustle it into the mouth of some ugly 
smoking thingumajig, coughing up my gizzard from the dust, 
even if I didn't gain time to loaf in the grocery at Snagville 
corners and spit at the stove. 

Poor old Spain is getting pretty well singed just now. But 
she's better than she looks. I went there myself with a 
hereditary instinct that I ought to keep a revolver in my hip 



138 APPENDIX 

pocket and look out for snags. But when on the eve of my 
departure I took my enormous Smith & Wesson off my sagged- 
down belt, pulled the five cartridges out and threw it with a 
kerthump into my trunk, I realized with disgust that I 
hadn't been able to make a record even as a bad shot. 

Without discussing the upper classes (who, entre nous, I 
don't believe are so very, very good in any land), but con- 
fining ourselves to farmers that the above threshing scene 
brings before us, I may say that no better people exist any- 
where. Harder, tougher than nails are these Spanish peasants, 
full of cheerful patience and resignation that ought to procure 
them reserved seats in paradise. They labor like oxen under 
a tropical sun and laugh and sing over it, and there is not the 
slightest infinitesimal chance of ever laying by a goodly store 
for a rainy day. Is there meat for dinner? — and perhaps 
there is a small stew nearly every Sunday — well, hurrah 
for meat! Is there only a chunk of hard dry salt codfish? 
Viva el bacalao! Only rice? Good for rice! Nothing but 
bread? Well, we're pretty lucky to have bread, thanks to 
God ! And the beggars coming a-strolling along in their never- 
ending string get their share, too. A stingy Spaniard was 
never seen — that is, a poor one. 

Such thoughts as these came and went a-buzzing through 
my head, jounced out of me as I bumped along, viced in 
between five good-natured, chattering women in the onion 
atmosphere, and somehow or other we drew nearer and nearer 
to the mountains that had seemed so far off, and at last got 
to a steep hill where the wagon ruts dissolved away into marks 
worn in the solid rock, and we all got out and pushed the carro 
to the top. Abanilla lay down there below us, a cluster of 
houses and a church, at the base of a honeycombed hill, and 
we joggled into the town at dusk. 

I was to put up with a respectable private family who took 
boarders when they could get them. It was an ordinary sort 
of two-story house — ■ in the front a store where you could 
buy wine, aguardiente, sweet biscuits, ham, sausages, and 
cigarette paper; a half-dozen cdntaros or water jars set in a 
wooden frame, and four big, red tinajas sunk and plastered 
into the corner, filled with wine or water. 

The proprietress, a big, fat woman who tipped around like 
a toy figure with lead in the bottom, received me civilly and 



APPENDIX 139 

took me up to a little room where I stored my traps. For 
supper I had a tomato omelet and a very good, though strong, 
wine to wash it down with. I remember when I was a wee 
little boy pledging myself never to drink, smoke, chew, or 
swear, and probably would have cheerfully promised never 
to go to Spain. Where is that pledge now? Doing duty as 
a paving stone in hades. 

Abanilla dates from the Arabs. That is, I suppose it does, 
although I don't know anything about it. To find out about 
the Spanish past one must go to other countries and scour 
public libraries. At any rate, the oldest landmark in the 
town is a bit of Moorish castle wall and a cemented dungeon 
cut in the rock; a round hole served as inlet — it probably 
never had an outlet. These are at the summit of the hill 
around which Abanilla is built. We should be apt to wonder 
why under the sun the Arabs were asses enough to congregate 
in a desert waste like this, were it not for deep holes and caves 
cut in the Pena Roja near by, evidently abandoned mines. 
The story goes that the Moors unearthed rich stores of gold 
and silver from all these sierras round about. It may be so. 
It is true that they are veritable storehouses of iron, lead, 
sulphur, and ochre — with not a little silver and quicksilver, 
but no modern man has yet succeeded in discovering gold. 

Peasants who go over to Oran to work in the vineyards 
relate conversations with the Moors; "Abanilla! Ah! rich, very 
rich! Hidden treasures! Pena Roja!" And there are mys- 
terious stories of men coming and going in the night, but we 
all know them — they fill space in American newspapers with 
old dying Mexican and Indian accompaniments. But that 
there are hidden antiquities about all these Arab towns seems 
probable enough. I, myself, might tell of digging with pick- 
axe in likely-looking spots that gave out intriguing hollow 
sounds — but let that pass. 

Talking of antiquities, I know a captain retired on half- 
pay who showed me a Phoenician water jar covered with 
barnacles and shells, pulled up with nets in the sea near 
Carthagena, and two amphoras, the history of which he 
related in splendid, animated, windmill fashion. But when I 
spoke of this to a mutual friend, he just laughed his insides 
out. "What! that chap digging up amphoras! Well! what 
a liar! Why both of them were given to him, and as for 



140 APPENDIX 

Phoenician jars, don't you know how they are made? They 
take a modern one and sink it with cords for a few months 
and it comes up looking as though it fell out of the ark." Ah ! 
Phoenician jar, we all know where thou art to-day. Yellow 
gold was paid for thee and ages hence thy remains will be 
unearthed from the ashes of Troy (N. Y.). 

Dodge Macknight. 



(Boston Evening Transcript, June 11, 1898) 



ACTUALITIES IN SPAIN 

Now when the yellow journals are blooming with fearfully 
and wonderfully made pictures of Spaniards (by the way, if 
an individual dressed after the fashion of our caricaturists 
were to be seen over there he would undoubtedly be taken for 
an American Pig and stabbed to death), and all the conver- 
sation hereabouts concentrates itself upon Dons and Dagos, 
would it be presumptuous for a poor, humble personage who 
has lived in Spain, not hustled through it in Stapes from hotel 
to hotel, to join the universal talking match and get up a 
little side-show of his own? And first let me preface my 
remarks by saying that I have lived long enough in foreign 
lands to appreciate the Star-Spangled Banner, God bless her! 
In my button-hole breathes the bland request to just "Re- 
member the Maine", and the very seat of my pantaloons is 
patched with Old Glory. 

Well, the Spaniards are pretty good fellows after all in 
certain ways. To sum them up, I should say that they were 
a race of boys, easily amused and excited, incapable of taking 
a serious Anglo-Saxon view of life, generally generous among 
themselves and always extraordinarily so to strangers. The 
trouble is that without realizing it they are often cruel and 
barbarous, and that is just where the shoe pinches our feet. 
As in the case of your excellent neighbor who insists in prac- 
ticing on the trombone when you want to go to sleep, you 
don't care if he is a deacon in the Methodist Sunday-school, 
your heart's desire is to make a doormat of him. 

I don't pretend to understand the Spaniard thoroughly. 
My mental standpoint was not his. I could see pretty well 
through his spectacles, but a good many things looked blurred. 
Still I left many friends there of whom I think with affection. 

Sometimes the mixture of generosity and cruelty led to 
such strange results that I used to lie awake nights trying to 
puzzle out the why and the wherefore, but I gave it up. When 
I get to paradise perhaps I shall have leisu.e to guess the 
answers — some, not all. 



142 APPENDIX 

When I was in Murcia a couple of years ago, a certain 
woman was to be garroted. She had confessed to poisoning 
her husband deliberately for the purpose of ultimately marry- 
ing a lover. Well, wasn't there a hullabaloo in the old town! 
It was stirred to its innermost depths. Petitions by the yard 
were sent to Madrid. Prominent men called meetings. 
Deputies and senators vied with each other in using their 
influence for mercy. All to no purpose, and on the fatal 
day, spoken of in the local papers as a day of shame and 
ignominy for the noble city of Murcia (the word noble is 
invariably yanked in by the hair), inhabitants left there in 
trainfuls, while windows and balconies were covered with 
crape. 

This is not so extraordinary — indeed, it seems praiseworthy 
and reasonable enough until we find that in the selfsame city, 
of some twenty-five or thirty thousand souls, there is an 
average of one cold-blooded murder per night on the street 
corner and no one makes much of a protest about it. It is 
relegated to some corner of the Murcia daily, and the assas- 
sins get off scot-free or receive sentences varying from one to 
twenty-five years imprisonment according to the amount of 
"pull" they have with the caciques or local political leaders. 
A friend of mine who lived in an out-of-the-way city in the 
province — he held an important position in a large whole- 
sale warehouse belonging to a provincial deputy — was called 
to Murcia on jury duty. Before starting he was politely 
requested to use his influence for the acquittal of a certain 
murderer, and there was a little hint thrown in that if he 
failed he would suddenly find himself out of a job. He was 
not lost to all sense of honor, for afterward he came around 
to see me and spattered the four walls of my room with 
Spanish swear words as he raged over the many ignominious 
"deals," but — well, he has his job yet, and I daresay has 
forgotten all about the affair by now. 

Do you naively imagine that in Spain voters go to the 
polls to put in their ballots freely for their preferred candidate? 
Hardly. Each man carefully weighs up the amount of 
damage that a candidate and his friends may be able to 
inflict upon his business, and if one in particular tips the 
scales, that one gets his vote; if the balance seems danger- 
ously equal, he sagely hides till after election. This, after 



APPENDIX 143 

all, is only one scene in the zarzuela, for I have known of 
elections in Madrid where the candidates of the party in 
power got more votes than there were voters in the entire 
precinct. 

Dost think that in these stirring times of strife, rich and 
poor shoulder muskets together and fight for la pairia? Ca 
hombre, ca! The bourgeois charitably get up theatricals and 
enthusiastically wave flags and sing the "Marcha de Cadiz", 
while poor wax-like devils already returned with arm in 
bandage and morgue countenance are generously given front 
seats in festooned loges, where at certain moments they are 
instructed to stand up and shout "VivaEspana!" 

If we could only corral in the common people that work for 
their daily bread, principally peasants, send them to school, 
and give them a few square meals, while we knocked the lining 
out of the rest of Spain, this would be the most glorious war 
that ever took place. There is an old proud saying constantly 
quoted in the newspaper editorials about the "reina de CastiUa 
que cria a los hombres y los gasta," or words to that effect — 
the kingdom of Castile that produces men and uses them up, 
by men of course meaning the populace. The "public be 
damned" isn't in it with this phrase. 

I personally know nothing whatever about the Spanish 
aristocracy. I happened to be out when the Duke of Veraguas 
called to inquire if I wanted to buy a few bulls. I have seen 
the interiors of some of their country houses and found them 
inartistically furnished with useless gew-gaws and tinfoil 
bric-a-brac. Generally in one corner of the salon there was 
a (hick foot-rug set around with chairs where the family 
evidently spent their winter evenings trying to keep warm 
in a palace without chimneys. The walls had once been 
crudely decorated in cheap distemper that had long since 
cracked off, and a number of old black oil paintings hanging 
about were only noticeable as being hand-made. The floors 
were in general agreeably and picturesquely put together with 
varnished tiles, forming a mosaic landscape with a white 
border. The entrances to these mansions were as a rule very 
fine, with round archways, under which crept long staircases, 
but there again plaster and walls had parted company, and 
if there were century-old wrought-iron railings and lanterns, 
noticeable gaps and broken glass showed that there were 



144 APPENDIX 

evidently junk shops in Spain. I once visited a chateau 
belonging to a certain marquis and strolled through upward 
of fifty rooms, but all the souvenirs I have preserved of the 
place are associated with a fine flower garden full of big 
geraniums in flower and the black-eyed daughter of the 
concierge. 

Perhaps I am too hard upon the aristocracy as a class. 
(They really must excuse me.) It seems to me that a man 
with a handle to his name ought to be able to pay himself a 
little culture and refinement. But make the mansions smaller 
and pull off a little more plaster, divide the number of paint- 
ings by two, mix in tissue-paper flowers and saints in glass 
cases, and there you have a bourgeois interior sure enough. 
I knew very few bourgeois intimately either; not that I 
couldn't, but I didn't want to. They failed to interest me. 
By bourgeois I mean a person who has an income anywhere 
down to three or four hundred dollars a year. For over there 
a man with that amount rarely if ever thinks of working. 
He can exist easily without stirring a hand, for he is a frugal 
eater, living on stews of vegetables and rice, with now and 
then a piece of meat thrown in. Wine is cheap if he cares 
to drink it, but water is generally enough for him. He kills 
his time by going to the cafe or casino at noon to drink his 
cup of black coffee and play dominoes, and at night you will 
usually find him seated at the gaming table playing monte. 
These bourgeois are not bad chaps to meet and talk with. 
They will insist in paying for your coffee, give you a cigar, 
talk and chat agreeably and lie most voluminously. But 
they are not of the slightest use in the world, and Spain would 
be infinitely better off by their absence. Their money is 
generally invested in land that they let out to peasants at 
good stiff prices, and they would no more risk a dollar in 
trying to build up industries or develop mines than give up 
their noonday coffee. 

They have a superficial smattering of education picked up 
in Jesuit colleges, but are such a lazy and nai've and gullible 
class altogether that Spain has become a stamping ground for 
knaves and rascals from the four corners of the earth. And 
if they are exploited for a peseta or two they seem to bear no 
ill will, but rather admire the man capable of doing it. 

I have said that they can exist easily enough on three 



APPENDIX 145 

or four hundred a y.ear, and so they can, but they don't always. 
Gaming often makes terrible breaches in their income and not 
seldom their capital goes to the bow-wows. Then love of 
dress plays the deuce with their dollars, and when the family 
is large — the rule rather than the exception — I guess after 
all they can't have pie for dinner every day, unless they get 
trusted for it. If my readers were to investigate the home life 
of a large majority of the well-dressed and elegant people seen 
in the paseos they would be considerably astonished. I pene- 
trated into a good many of these interiors, for an acquaint- 
ance of mine was a buyer of antiquities and I liked to go on a 
hunt for old heirlooms and pictures and jewels and fans, even 
if I wasn't rich enough to acquire anything myself. 

I found the families eager to sell all they had, and many 
were evidently getting down to hard pan, what from increased 
land taxes or recklessness or profligacy. But there was no 
question of going to work to stop up the gap. Loaf with 
honor was their motto. 

Pretty bad all their old stuff was, utterly lacking in artistic 
qualities. Now and then something good would be pulled 
out of the rubbish heap, and then it was diamond cut diamond, 
perhaps for days, and arguments and dickering down to the 
last cent. But anything that was evidently not wanted they 
would dispose of at any price. 

In this way an excellent friend of mine, an old notary with 
a passion for pictures, bought up cartloads of large, old oil 
paintings, frames and all, for anywhere from twenty-five cents 
to a dollar apiece. There was only one man in the world 
capable of adding to the badness of most of these pictures, 
and 'twas this notary. God bless him, he meant all right, 
and after all you can't spoil a bad egg anyway. He was the 
most abstemious man I ever met, never drinking anything 
but water, spending but a few cents a day for food, and smok- 
ing just two cigarettes every twenty-four hours. The rest 
of his income went for art. Every day I would find him in 
his little house, a microscopic palette on his thumb, engaged 
in restoring (as he said) and improving his gallery. But 
here's the rub! occasionally he acquired some really good 
pictures, of course being entirely unconscious of the fact. 
One, I especially remember, painted on copper, a Virgin of 
the Rosary with figures of saints and angels — evidently a 



146 'APPENDIX 

study by some old master for an ambitious painting. I tried 
by all manner and means of reasoning to get him to leave it 
alone, but if it had been signed "God" down in the corner he 
would have put in a few "added truths" just the same. At 
first he proposed to cover up small spots of copper where the 
paint had worn off, but once started death alone could have 
stopped him. The angels came out of the ordeal looking as 
though they had just finished a repast of huckleberry pie in 
some celestial cheap hash-house, and when he got through 
with the Virgin she was the rockiest damsel that ever burnt 
up lamp oil. Two other good pictures, Italian probably, he 
cleaned and soaked in a strong bath of lye to take off the 
dirt and varnish. They got restored all right ■ — restored to 
their forefathers. Amongst other chef-d'oeuvres that he 
used to improve were bits of sketches by Dodge Macknight. 

I presented him with the daily scrapings from my palette, 
and he dried them and carefully kept them in a box. He 
would take some study of a hut and put in interesting details 
of peasants and peasant's sweethearts and jackasses, and doves 
billing and cooing in the air, and bunches of ripe dates growing 
on any old sort of a tree. They only needed the name of 
some pre-Raphaelite affixed to make them exhaustively 
complete. 

A man is known by the company he keeps, and so after a 
time I, too, was besieged by requests to buy this thing and 
that thing. As a sample, I may speak of an old hundred 
dollar bill, "from my country," signed Blank's hair vitalizer. 

Dodge Macknight. 



APPENDIX 147 



ABRIDGED HISTORY 

1860 Born Oct. 1, Providence, R. I. 

1876 Graduated — High School 

1877 With scene painter 

1878 Business in New Bedford, Mass. 

1883 Dec. 26, sailed for Paris 

1884 Cormon's Atelier — Moret in summer 

1885 Cormon's Atelier — Auvergne, Montpezat, Aubenas, Fontvielle 

1886 Cormon's Atelier — Cassis, Moret, Algeria 

1887 Algeria, Cassis, Moret 

1888 Moret, Fontvielle, Moret 

1889 Moret, Port Hallan (Belle-Ile) 

1890 Port Salio (Belle-Ile) 

1891 Cosquel (Belle-Ile) 

1892 Spain, married June 20th, Orihuela 

1893 Spain, Orihuela 

1894 Monthyon in spring, then to Valserres 

1895 Valserres, Le Puy 

1896 Spain (Orihuela) 

1897 Spain Oct. America — Greenfield, Mass. 

1898 Spring to Mystic, Conn. 

1899 Mystic 

1900 Spring to Sandwich, Mass. 

1901 Sandwich 

1902 Sandwich 

1903 Sandwich 

1904 Sandwich — May to Nov. Spain, Ronda, Granada, Sierra Nevada, 

Orihuela 

1905 Sandwich — Grand Manan 

1906 Sandwich — Jamaica 6 weeks — Newfoundland (Torbay) 

1907 Sandwich — Mexico- (Cordoba) 

1908 Sandwich — White Mts., Mexico (Cuautla) 

1909 Sandwich — White Mts., Summer to Newfoundland (Flat-Rock) 

White Mts. 4 mos. 

1910 Sandwich — White Mts. 

1911 Sandwich — Mexico (Coatepec), White Mts. 

1912 Sandwich — White Mts. 

1913 Sandwich — Utah (Zion Canyon), White Mts. 

1914 Sandwich — Grand Canyon, Colorado, White Mts. 

1915 Sandwich — Grand Canyon (Northerly rim), White Mts. 

1916 Sandwich — Nearly all the year 

Painting Trips. Many years in France, three times to Spain, once to 
Algeria. Three times to Mexico, twice to Newfoundland, once to Grand 
Manan, once to Jamaica, twice to Grand Canyon, once to Utah. Many 
times to Shelburne, N. H. 



148 



APPENDIX 



EXHIBITIONS HELD AT THE GALLERIES OF MESSRS. DOLL 
AND RICHARDS, BOSTON 



No. 


Year Duration 


Pictures 


Subjects * 


1 


1888 Jan. 28-Feb. 9 


35 


Algerian-French 


2 


1889 March 21-April 3 


30 


French 


3 


1890 March 22-April 2 


30 


Belle-Ile 


4 


1891 March 6-18 


30 


Belle-Ile 


5 


1892 Feb. 26-March 9 


30 


Belle-Ile 


6 


1897 March 19-31 


30 


Spanish 


7 


1899 Feb. 3-15 


30 


Spanish, Alps, Mystic 


8 


1900 March 9-21 


30 


Mystic 


9 


1901 March 8-20 


30 


Cape Cod 


10 


1902 March 21-April 3 


31 


Cape Cod 


11 


1903 April 3-15 


30 


Cape Cod 


12 


1904 April 1-13 


29 


Cape Cod 


13 


1905 March 24-April 5 


30 


Spanish 


14 


1906 April 26-May 8 


30 


Grand Manan, Jamaica, Cape 
Cod 


15 


1908 March 12-24 


30 


Newfoundland, Mexico, Cape 
Cod 


16 


1909 March 5-17 


30 


Newfoundland, White Mts., 
Cape Cod 


17 


1910 April 15-27 


30 


White Mts., Miscellaneous, 
Cape Cod 


18 


1911 April 7-19 


29 


White Mts., Miscellaneous, 
Cape Cod 


19 


1913 March 21- 


28 


White Mts., Mexico.Cape Cod 


20 


1914 March 27- 


30 


White Mts., Utah, Cape Cod 


21 


1915 March 25 


32 


White Mts., Great Canyon, 
Cape Cod 


22 


1916 March 17- 


30 


White Mts., Grand Canyon, 
Mexican 


23 


1917 March 16- 


30 


Newfoundland 4, Mexico 5, 
Cape Cod 11, White Mts. 
10 



SAINT BOTOLPH CLUB, BOSTON 



Year 


Duration 


Pictures 


Subjects 


1894 


Jan. 1-20 


58 


Spanish 


1907 


Feb. 28— March 23 


50 


Newfoundland — M iscellaneous 


1912 


March 25-April 5 


46 


Mexico, White Mts., Miscellaneous 



APPENDIX 149 

NEW BEDFORD, MASS. (H. S. Hutchison & Co.) 

Year Duration Pictures Subjects 

1898 Feb. 18-March 1 12 French, Spanish 
1902 Jan. 22-28 8 Cape Cod 

NEW ORLEANS, LA. (Fiske Library Gallery) 
1893 Feb. 24-March 3 35 Miscellaneous 

1899 Dec. 15-23 5 Miscellaneous 

HAMPTON COLLEGE 
1893 Nov. 28-Dec. 6 37 Miscellaneous 

BLACK AND WHITE CLUB, PLYMOUTH 
1902 Oct. 1-7 30 Miscellaneous 

LONDON, ENGLAND (John S. Sargent's Studio) 
1890 30 Belle-Ile 

TWENTIETH CENTURY CLUB, BOSTON 
1907 Nov. 26-Dec. 13 50 Grand-Manan — Cape Cod 

MRS. HENRY WHITMAN STUDIO, 
56 Mt. Vernon St., Boston, Mass. 
1895 Oct. 1-7 30 Belle He, French Alps 



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